


City of Magic

by whatsherface



Series: March City Dreams [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Detectives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mage (Dragon Age) Rights, Mages and Templars, Modern Thedas, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Police, Police Procedural, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsherface/pseuds/whatsherface
Summary: The Conclave disaster leaves March City in disarray and a power vacuum at the highest levels, for the city proper and its Circle of Magi. As the newly-formed Inquisition Task Force struggles to keep order, those with ambition and their own agendas rise to stake their claim on the future, and Cassandra and Trevelyan investigate trouble at the Circle, only to find that everything is more connected than it seems.More modern cop procedural AU! With more action! More drama! More romance! Alternating points of view. Rating for eventual smut.Can be read on its own, but for best results, readPart 1.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Mage Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: March City Dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566985
Comments: 55
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again. ;)

They didn’t call it Adamant for nothing. 

The gates of the Grey Warden bunker on the western outskirts of March City took two hundred pounds of gaatlok to breach. That was the easy part, it turned out. The Wardens inside were outnumbered three to one, but not one of them was giving ground without a fight. 

At least, that’s how it sounded on the wireless: frantic shouts between Detective Rutherford and his men, punctuated by gunfire, explosions, and the boom of what could only be very powerful magic. 

Owain Trevelyan, Enchanter-Investigator of the Circle Investigative Bureau (still, last time he checked), stood inside the entrance and adjusted his mask against the lingering smoke from the blast. Cupping his hand around his earpiece, he strained to hear what was happening further ahead, wishing he could be there firsthand. 

Beside him, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast paced back and forth, covering and re-covering the same twenty-foot stretch of wall. He was sure her boots were carving a groove into the cracked cement floor. It was like watching his own restlessness, played out in front of him. Reassuring, in a way. 

The Inquisition raid had been planned for more than a week. Various alternatives and strategies had been discussed at length among the Task Force, violence a last resort. The Wardens had stopped responding to DA Nightingale’s inquiries about their connections to red lyrium and the Conclave disaster. In fact, they had stopped communicating with the outside world at all. So the Inquisition had traced the lyrium shipments and come in search of answers. And they were meeting resistance at every turn.

Despite their protests, he and Pentaghast had been forbidden from participating directly in the raid. Not after what Rutherford termed “that stunt in Kirkwall.” They were of too much strategic importance, according to Josephine, as the highest-ranking remaining Seeker of Truth and a representative of the Circle, though that distinction was shaky, at best. 

Either way, they had been assigned to the rear along with the medics, technicians, and forensics specialists, all waiting for Rutherford’s team to clear the way. It was infuriating, being pushed to the sidelines. He could hear what was happening but was powerless to help. 

His eyes followed the Seeker as she prowled past on another lap. Like him, she was covered in heavy body armor, probably wearing a scowl under her mask. She caught him with a glare that wasn’t entirely meant for him and huffed as she stomped by.

He might have laughed if he didn’t feel exactly the same way, if he was anywhere but here. Anywhere but here, he might have thought about _her,_ about the efficient grace in the way she moved or the light in her hazel eyes or how her legs could possibly be so long. 

He might even have thought about the softness that lived beneath all that armor, both visible and not, the walls that came down when he strayed too far from the purely professional or the task at hand. He knew it was there. He’d been lucky enough to see it once, weeks ago, at the start of all this. For a few hours, he had held it in his arms. 

Since then, he’d had to settle for glimpses: a smile that ran a little too deep, the warmth in her laugh, a lingering look. All rare, if he bothered to count. It was easier not to.

He might have thought about these things, if he had the time. If he wasn’t waiting here by the doors of Adamant, trying not to breathe the fumes. He pressed his hand to his ear again, trying to parse a report from the front lines. 

The smoke and the noise reminded him of war, of the Blight and his time in the Circle’s military corps. It had felt like the end of the world back then, the city locked down, the sky burning, ash raining from the clouds. He’d gone into every battle not knowing if he’d make it out alive or uninfected, which was the real concern in those days. Fear and despair were everywhere. Even a young man’s sense of invincibility couldn’t match that. 

Of course, it hadn’t been the end. Only ten years, and how the world had changed since then. As thanks for their help, the mages had been allowed to stand up their own government and live outside the Circle compounds, albeit with heavy restrictions and Templar policing. They had hoped it would be a stepping stone to more freedoms. For a time in the immediate peace, it had seemed so. 

More recently, frictions between the mages and Templars had worn away any past goodwill, and despite all he and Pentaghast had personally done to uncover the truth about the Conclave, it still threatened to blow everything wide open…

“Trevelyan.”

Seeker Pentaghast touched his shoulder, and it pulled him from his thoughts. He could read the frown in her eyes even through the tinted visor. Concern or impatience? She jerked her head in the direction of the central corridor, where the medics were on the move. 

Impatience, he guessed. The sounds of violence had faded from the radio, replaced by Rutherford’s calls for assistance. Owain took that to mean they had subdued the Wardens at last. 

He followed the Seeker into the building. They picked their way down the hall and down two flights of stairs, occasionally standing aside as injured officers were carried through or arrested Wardens were marched out in cuffs. 

Their path ended in a large chamber at the heart of the structure, some kind of meeting room or great room. The double doors had been battered off their hinges. Bullet holes scarred the concrete walls, and a large banner with a griffin crest hung in tatters, scorched and smoking. A few bodies lay on the floor. Most of them were Wardens. 

It was too bad, really. Although Owain hadn’t had much to do with the Wardens since the Blight, he had served alongside a few. He remembered them all as brave men and women, willing to pay any cost to turn back the darkspawn. How had they ended up on the wrong side of this?

“Cullen!” 

Pentaghast spotted Rutherford and hurried toward him. He was crouched a few yards from the doors, beside a man who lay hyperventilating on the floor. One of his officers, judging by the uniform, and gravely injured, judging by the blood. A healer knelt at the man’s side, holding his hands over his heart and working a complicated spell. 

Rutherford was speaking quietly to the man—Barris, said the tag on his chest—trying to keep him calm. It wasn’t clear how well it was working. Pentaghast sat on her knees next to Rutherford, while Owain looked on in silence. 

The healer slumped his shoulders and put up his hands. “It’s no good,” he said. “I’ve stopped most of the bleeding, but there’s too much internal damage. His lungs are filling with fluid.”

“There must be something you can do,” said Rutherford through gritted teeth, keeping Barris’s head from lolling to the side. 

The healer shook his head. “Not on my own. This is a two-man job. Call Surana.” 

“I tried. There are two officers in critical upstairs. She won’t make it in time.”

Owain realized that Pentaghast was staring at him. “Can you help?” she asked. 

Before he could answer, the healer whipped around and looked at him as if he had just noticed his existence.

“You a mage?” The healer’s eyes flicked to the badge on Owain’s vest. “Circle?”

Owain took in the three pairs of eyes on him and shook his head. “Hey, I’m no spirit healer. My talents run the other way.”

The healer didn’t seem to care. He pulled a vial of L from his belt and tossed it back. “Don’t they teach you first aid in training?” He shivered as the potion took effect, and when he looked at Owain, his eyes had taken on a slight blue cast. 

“That was a long time ago,” Owain replied. 

“Well, surely you can follow directions,” the healer sniffed, lifting his hands to begin the procedure. “Even dogs can do that. Ready a basic spell and follow my lead.”

It was an order, not a request. Owain scoffed and appealed to the others. They were no help at all. Pentaghast just looked at him expectantly. “It’s his only chance,” said Rutherford.

 _Fuck._

Owain heaved a sigh, then closed his eyes and cast the only heal spell he knew. He cleared his mind and focused his mana, pouring his will into the task. Reaching for the veil and orienting himself at its borders, he found the trail of the healer’s magic and followed, molding his own in the best imitation he could muster. 

It was a long process, and exhausting, but by the end of it, the worst of Barris’s wounds had been stabilized. The healer pronounced that he might make it after all. Owain helped the paramedics lift the man onto a stretcher. The healer gave him a stiff nod before turning to follow them out. 

Owain stretched his cramped legs and shook out his hands, looking for Rutherford and the Seeker, who had gone to see to the rest of the room. Any survivors had been carried away by now; only the dead were left. The detective was giving orders to the officers cataloguing the scene, while Pentaghast was bent over a body near the back of the room. He went to join her. 

“Trevelyan,” she said, waving him closer. “Look at this.”

As he neared the body, he slowed, immediately sensing something was wrong. The veil felt damaged and torn here, the magical signatures dissonant and harsh. 

“He’s a mage,” said Owain. “Or was.”

Pentaghast nodded. “And exceptionally powerful. He is responsible for most of the damage you see. And most of the deaths.”

This close, Owain’s sense of dread only grew, heavy like a weight in his gut. The Seeker handed him a pair of gloves. He rolled the man over, checking his eyes—wide open and bloodshot, solid red—and his mouth—full of blood. His pale face was twisted in a mask of fury, but still definitely human. All the telltale signs of demonic involvement, and yet, not quite.

“Possession?” Pentaghast offered.

Owain nodded. “Almost certainly. But he doesn’t look like an abomination. And look at the gashes here.” He pointed to the long slashes along the forearm, among similar scars that had healed over. “Blood magic, too.”

Rutherford had joined them. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood looking down at the body. “No one knows his name. Or they won’t say. My men said he’d gone mad, impossible to reason with. He wasn’t even speaking coherently by the end, as far as anyone could tell. Couldn’t tell friend from foe, hitting us and the Wardens.” 

“How did you defeat him?” asked the Seeker.

“Normal ordinance did hardly anything, silencers were entirely ineffective. Heavy rounds took him down eventually, but even then it was a battle of attrition.” Rutherford handed Owain a small vial of viscous red liquid. “We found that in his pockets. Along with a needle and a few empties.”

Owain rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the red L flow and swirl. Pure lyrium solutions were potent enough for mages, like the healer and his mana potion, and Owain had seen the effects of the red stuff on Templars. Just being in the proximity of the crystals was enough to give him a pounding headache. What might it do in the bloodstream? 

“We know the Wardens were the source of the red lyrium supply,” said Pentaghast, cutting into his thoughts. “Was anyone else using it?”

Rutherford shook his head. “No, no signs of it on anyone else. Looks like it was for export only. Except for him.”

It made no sense. “Why would the Wardens dabble with demons and blood magic?” Owain asked. “Were they that desperate? And for what? It’s been ten years since the Blight.” 

“We don’t know.” Rutherford sighed, sounding tired now. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “We’ve arrested over a dozen of them, but it’ll take time to get them all processed and through questioning. No one’s offered an explanation yet, I can tell you that. It’s possible we’ll find something in their records once we get them decrypted, but I won’t be surprised if they’ve covered their tracks.”

Seeker Pentaghast was still examining the body. “His uniform is curious,” she said, gesturing toward the armored vest that covered his torso. “It is unlike the rest of the Wardens.”

Owain looked around at the few fallen Wardens that remained, in their blue and grey and griffin crests, and back down at the dead mage. She was right. The uniform was different. All black, nondescript, no insignias, no badges. Nothing, except a flash of metal at his collar, just under the edge of his vest. Owain pushed it aside and hooked out a thin metal chain. What was on it made his stomach plunge through the floor.

They were dog tags, stamped with the Circle emblem, a name, and a serial. Standard issue for Militia Branch. He had a set just like them, rattling around the back of a drawer somewhere in his apartment. Maybe a lot of people did. 

But a lot of people hadn’t killed five men in the middle of a Grey Warden bunker.

“Shit.”

\---

Cassandra tapped her pen on her desk and glared at the tower of paperwork that awaited her this morning. Reports on Adamant, files on the whereabouts of the Red Templars. Their next operation was running security for Leliana’s upcoming election fundraiser, and there was a pile of briefs on that, as well. 

She sipped her coffee, allowing herself one more moment of peace. It had cooled, but only a little. Trevelyan brought her a cup every morning, always with just the right amount of sugar and cream. It was nothing fancy, only from the cart on the corner in front of City Hall. Still.

Trevelyan himself sat on the other side of the desk, legs crossed ankle-to-knee and a stack of files like hers balancing in his lap. He was dressed casually, which she had learned was usual for him, in a hooded sweatshirt, button-up, and jeans, and he was wearing glasses, which he did sometimes when reading. His leather jacket hung on the back of his chair. 

There was no official reason for him to share her office; plenty of vacant spaces could be found just down the hall. He had simply taken up residence here when the Task Force began, and she had never asked him to leave. It was more convenient this way. They had fallen into an easy partnership, both here and in the field, and she valued his insights on their cases as much as his magic at her back. 

It had everything to do with their work, of course, and nothing at all to do with _him._

Trevelyan knit his brow as he went through the report in his hand. His lip curled back around the end of his pen where he tapped it idly against his teeth. She tried not to remember brushing her fingers over that brow or feeling those lips under hers. She had not forgotten that night at her apartment—quite the opposite, in fact. But he had not spoken of it since, and neither had she. She was not even sure where to begin.

He caught her staring. With no warning, his eyes snapped to hers, and he did not look away. Instead, he lowered the pen and stared back with a curious tilt of his head. 

_Ugh._ She rolled her eyes and made a show of turning away and flipping open the nearest file, as if that’s what she had been doing all along. She could feel his eyes on her anyway, and a warm flush crept onto her cheeks. 

When he spoke, it was all business. 

“I keep thinking about Renning,” he said.

“The mage with the Wardens.” 

“He wasn’t a Warden. And the Circle has no standing orders with them. There’s just no good reason for a Circle battlemage to be at Adamant.”

She flipped through the files on her desk and found the one she wanted. “One of the Wardens reported he arrived only two days before the raid. Leadership was heralding a new age for the Wardens. A new strategy against the Blight.”

“A new _weapon,_ they mean,” Trevelyan sneered.

“Perhaps,” she said, ignoring his snark as she usually did. “The Warden-Commander is still refusing to cooperate. We will know more if she talks.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Grey Wardens are all about honor. Probably a point of pride to give us nothing.” He paused, staring out the window at the cloudy morning and shaking the foot propped on his knee. “What about your friend, Blackwall? Didn’t he say something about an influx of cash? And something about stopping the Blight at its source?”

“He has not returned my calls.”

“Can’t we verify what he said? Check their financials? Surely they were getting paid for all that red lyrium. Follow the money?”

She dug again into her pile of paperwork and handed him the thick file of financial records she had already reviewed. Self-satisfaction pulled at the corner of her mouth, and she didn’t even try to hide it. 

He laughed as he took the folder, and it lit his face in a way that almost made her blush again. “Of course,” he said, leafing through the pages as soon as they were in his hands.

She let him read, turning to her own reports at last. They worked in comfortable silence for a while. 

“Well, they were certainly getting paid,” said Trevelyan, fifteen minutes later. “Five payments over the last four months, each of them at least double their regular appropriations from the city budget. The payors, though—a different entity every time.”

“Shell companies, most likely,” she said with a nod. “From all over Thedas. Antiva City, Denerim, Val Royeaux, even Minrathous.”

“Out of our jurisdiction, to say the least?”

“Yes. But the bank is Marcher. Leliana issued a subpoena, but their lawyers have tied it up in court. We have no answers yet.”

“Mm.” Trevelyan flipped through the file again, running his finger down a page. “As far as their expenses, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. If they bought Renning, they didn’t pay by check.”

“Agreed.”

He shut the folder and let it flop on the desk. “So that’s it? Is this really all we have?” 

“For now, yes.” 

“Don’t you think the connection is important? That if we find out why he was at Adamant, maybe we’ll find out what’s behind all this?”

She took a calming breath. Or an attempt at one—his persistence was starting to feel like blame. The truth was, they were desperately short on leads. “We have no other records on Renning. He is not in the registry.”

“Neither am I.”

Too much. “Well. Then perhaps you should take this back to the Circle,” she snapped. 

He didn’t respond right away. He just leaned back in his chair and blinked at her. She already regretted her tone.

“Maybe I will,” he said quietly.

She sipped her coffee and let the subject drop. Her eyes drifted to the map pinned on her wall. “In any case, we have our hands full already, tracking the Red Templars.”

“I saw the update on the lyrium manifests,” Trevelyan said, as if nothing odd had passed between them. “Or lack of update, rather.”

“Yes, they are still working on the encryption. It is unusually sophisticated, they say.”

“Might not matter anyway. Wherever the shipments went, they’re long gone by now. If the Templars have anything close to what we found in Kirkwall stashed somewhere else, that’s enough to keep them drowning in Red for months.”

He was right. She sighed and wrapped her hands around her now-lukewarm cup. “I cannot help feeling there is something greater at work here. Some thread that connects this all—the Conclave, the Wardens, the Templars.”

“It is all oddly targeted,” he agreed, looking out the window again. “Playing on everyone’s weaknesses, our greatest fears, our divisions. Too much to be coincidence...”

Before either of them could say anything else, the door opened. Rylen, one of the Inquisition officers, put his head in the gap. 

“War room,” he said, jerking his head toward the hallway behind him. He didn’t wait for a response. 

She and Trevelyan exchanged a look. He shrugged and rose to his feet, leaving his files on the chair and folding his glasses on top. She followed him out the door. 

Most of the Inquisition inner circle was there already: Josephine, Cullen, Rylen, a few others. Everyone was crowded around the television at the head of the room. One glance at the screen, and it was clear why. 

Cor Amladaris, shadowy March City billionaire and Leliana’s chief rival in the upcoming mayoral special election, was holding a rally of sorts. Amladaris—tall, gaunt, and unnaturally pale—stood at a podium splashed with his campaign logo, flanked on stage by half a dozen dark-suited cronies. The camera mixed shots of his face, sharp and twisted with anger, with pans of the crowd, an apparent mix of March City citizens. 

She and Trevelyan had arrived mid-speech, but it was not difficult to catch the point of his message. 

“How long must we live in fear of the mages in our midst?” spat Amladaris, drawing shouts from the crowd. “How long must we suffer this constant threat? A single mage possesses devastating power, as they showed in Kirkwall just two years ago. Are we so quick to forget? 

“Still we allow these abominations to walk free among us, to threaten our very existence. While city authorities do nothing! They bow to mage demands, and where will it end? In chaos and corruption! Mayor Divine sought to make peace with them, and look how they repaid her. The Circle Accord was a mistake. The Conclave has made that much clear. It is a mistake I will correct once I am Mayor.”

Amladaris paused for more applause, and then raised a hand to quiet the crowd.

“In the meantime, our patience grows thin. I can no longer stand idly by while innocents pay the price for our city’s folly.” Amladaris gestured to a thin, balding bureaucrat who joined him somewhat reluctantly at the podium. “Today, I announce a new partnership with Kirkwall District. District President Dumar has asked for my aid, and I have answered the call. To champion the people and correct this blighted city.”

Dumar leaned in to take the microphone as Amladaris stepped aside. “Mr. Amladaris has generously offered to supplement our district safety with the services of his own private security,” he read from his notes in a shaky voice. “Additionally, effective immediately, mages in Kirkwall shall be subject to emergency curfews and may be asked to present proof of registry at all times. Any unregistered mages may be subject to questioning and possible detainment.”

Finished, Dumar withdrew with a look of immense relief, while the crowd cheered in response and Amladaris reclaimed the podium. He waved forward a tall, sallow man with long brown hair dressed in black tactical gear. His eyes glowed an unnerving shade of red. Amladaris clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

Cassandra could feel Cullen tense beside her. “Samson,” he muttered under his breath. 

Amladaris again. “As of today, my Red Templars will be patrolling the streets, ensuring your safety against the mage threat. They will do what the weak MCPD will not. No longer will you need to walk in fear. No longer will you—”

The power cut abruptly, and the bombast was swapped for shocked silence. They turned to find Leliana holding the remote. 

Josephine recovered first. “Can he do that?” she asked. 

“No,” Leliana replied, leaving no room for argument. She tossed the remote on the conference table where it skidded to rest with a hollow, plastic sound. “He cannot. I will not have his private army dealing vigilante justice in my city.”

Cullen looked at Rylen and shook his head. “I don’t know if we have the manpower to go up against the Red Templars in force,” he said. “We’d have to pull officers from the other districts, and we’ve been short-handed as it is since the Reds defected.”

“Do the best you can, Cullen,” said Leliana, with steel in her voice. “Put a plan together. Josie, if you would, get Dumar on the phone. I want him to explain himself.”

Josephine was already flipping through her planner. “And the other district presidents?” 

“Please. I don’t want them getting any ideas.”

Everyone scattered to their work. Cassandra looked for Trevelyan and found him behind her, leaning against the edge of the war table with his arms crossed over his chest. His face was dark, mouth set in a grim line. 

“What will the Circle do?” she asked, leaning on the table beside him.

“They won’t let it stand. The Council will demand the city uphold their end of the accord. Problem is, there’s no one to enforce it. You heard Cullen.” He shook his head. “Everyone’s already on edge because of the Conclave and the protests. Kirkwall’s always been the worst. All this will do is fan the flames. It’s going to be chaos. It’s a declaration of war.”

“Amladaris is dangerous. He cannot be allowed to continue like this.”

Trevelyan arched a brow at her. “Are _you_ going to go arrest him? Good luck. His kind of money buys a lot of protection.”

“At least we know now where the Red Templars landed,” she said, recalling their earlier conversation. “I wonder. Were they with him from the beginning, or did they go to him after Lucius fell?”

“That would mean he’s behind the lyrium.”

“And the Wardens.”

Trevelyan frowned as he put the pieces together. “But why? All this to win an election?”

She sighed and pushed off from the table. “I do not know. But I expect we have only just begun.”

\---

It was something of a miracle that Owain had managed to avoid the Circle for as long as he had. Other than his meeting with those agents right after Kirkwall and a few curt phone calls with his supervisor, they had mostly left him alone. It was suspicious, but he wasn’t complaining. He was still getting paid, anyway. 

The gates were manned when he passed through. Unusual but not unheard of. He flashed his badge for the guards, who glanced at it and at him before waving him on. The outer walls had gained some new scars since the last time he was here: graffiti, scorching, missing chunks of concrete. Maybe the result of the ongoing unrest. Maybe the reason for the guards. 

CIB offices were located in a squat glass tower that housed most of the Circle of Magi’s governmental agencies. Owain swiped himself through security and up to his floor, silently hoping that the early hour would mean seeing a minimum of people he knew. 

Even after he stepped off the elevator, there was still an open floor of desks and cubicles to cross. Ducking his head, walking fast, and taking the less-travelled outer path, he made it almost to his door before a blond head popped up out of a nearby cube and looked him right in the eyes. He swore under his breath. _Sutherland, you spying little shit._

Owain pulled his mouth in a tight smile as he shoved his key in the lock and hurried inside without saying a word. The fall of footsteps past his door was not encouraging. How long did he have before the kid told everyone he was here? 

Leaving the lights off, he sat down at his desk and switched on his computer. He swiveled in his chair as he waited for the security screens to boot. It had been weeks since he was last here. A visible coat of dust covered the surface of his desk and the stacks of paper languishing in unfiled purgatory. He tipped the coffee mug next to his keyboard. Still dirty. 

He navigated to CIB’s secure databases and typed in Renning’s information, along with the serial number he’d saved on his phone. It pulled up all the usual: full name Mikael Renning, 31 years old, Tantervale native. In the Circle since age 10, graduate of the academy with high honors…

There was a knock on the door. He didn’t respond, but it opened anyway, and Sutherland’s weasley face appeared. Owain cursed himself for not locking it from the inside. 

“Reed wants to see you,” said Sutherland, in his singsong Starkhaven accent. 

“Tell him I’ll be there in five,” said Owain, still clicking through Renning’s profile, snapping pictures of the screen with his phone. 

“He says he wants to see you _now_.” 

Channeling Seeker Pentaghast and her blistering glares, Owain paused and leveled his worst at the junior officer in his doorway. Sutherland balked but stood his ground. 

It bought him a few seconds. Owain scanned Renning’s Militia Branch record, eyes catching on his most recent assignment, an operation called “Redcliffe.” He clicked for further details, but up popped a warning that his clearance was insufficient. He tried again, getting the same result. 

Sutherland cleared his throat. Owain shot him another dirty look, but it did nothing the second time around. Well, he’d hit a dead end anyway. Jabbing the power button on his computer, he got up and tucked his phone in his pocket. 

Drawing himself up to full height, which was a few solid inches taller than Sutherland, Owain wrenched the doorknob from his hand and brushed past him into the hall. Without another look, he crossed the floor to his supervisor’s big corner office. 

Gaius Reed was the director of CIB’s major investigations unit and had been Owain’s boss for the past year. Owain didn’t know much about him, other than that his parents were from Dairsmund, he had been born and raised in Markham, and he and his wife had three young kids, two of whom had already manifested their magic. They had all been born after the Blight. Imagine that—growing up in a world where the Circle wasn’t a prison, and as far as you knew, mages had always been free...

“Shut the door,” said Reed, taking off his black-framed glasses and pinching at the bridge of his nose. 

Owain did as he was told, then slouched silently into the chair in front of the imposing walnut desk. 

Reed replaced his glasses and sat back in his seat. “Nice of you to show up. Did you forget you work here?”

“No, sir. Been tied up with the Inquisition. Haven’t had a chance to check in.”

“We know you’ve been busy. That’s why I called you in.”

Owain straightened in his chair. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Not anymore. Your activities with the Inquisition are to cease immediately. You are not authorized to represent the Circle or to in any way give our support, implied or otherwise.”

Owain opened his mouth to speak, paused, then tried again. “I had orders from Fiona—”

“To attend the Conclave, yes.” Reed leaned his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers together. “Or so you say. There is no record of these orders. And if there were, they would almost certainly not extend to this crusade of the Nightingale’s.”

“But the Inquisition is a direct result of the events of the Conclave. A logical next step. We went because we wanted things to change. Can’t we agree that fighting corruption is a good thing for all of us?”

“I will not argue this further, Enchanter. You will stop all contact with the Inquisition. That’s an order.”

“What about Fiona? She can confirm this. Her word must be worth more than mine.”

Reed’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “You don’t know?” When Owain shook his head, he continued. “The Grand Enchanter is currently indisposed. She’s been in a coma since just after the Conclave.”

He didn’t know. He had no idea. Owain sat speechless, trying to absorb the news. 

In the silence, Reed sighed and removed his glasses again, brushing his hand over his tightly coiled curls. Black sprinkled with grey. “Look, Trevelyan. It’s not personal. I don’t have a problem with what the Inquisition is trying to do, and we’ve allowed you to work with them so far, but this comes from the top. It’s political now.”

“What was the cause?” Owain asked, coming out of his stupor. At Reed’s blank look, he clarified. “Of the coma.”

“Unknown. Natural causes, as far we can tell.”

“The Grand Enchanter just happens to fall sick after the murder of the mayor, with the whole city in turmoil?”

Reed clicked his tongue. “She was found in her office, unresponsive. No signs of foul play, no forced entry, no other injuries of any kind.” He stopped himself and narrowed his eyes. “Interested in doing your job now, are you?”

“I was always doing my job,” Owain shot back. “If Fiona’s out, who’s in charge?”

“Gereon Alexius is acting chair of the Council.”

“Alexius?” Owain recalled an unremarkable, scholarly man, president of the Circle’s research institute and an at-large seat on the Council. “And he’s the one ordering me to stop?”

“That’s not all he wants,” said Reed. “He wants you sanctioned for acting without authorization.”

“What, are you going to chain me to a desk now?”

“No. You’re suspended until further notice. Be thankful it’s not worse.”

His mouth dropped open, but Owain could think of no words to say that would not land him in more trouble. He bit it shut and turned aside, directing all his anger at the door. If he could burn a hole through it with his eyes, he surely would. 

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Take a break. Go home. Enjoy the time off.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Like I said, it’s not personal.” 

Reed’s patience was clearly wearing thin, but Owain was not in a mood to pump the brakes. He laughed, not because anything was funny. “Really? Because it feels pretty fucking personal.”

“That’s enough.” Reed wasn’t smiling. He held out his hand. “Badge.”

Owain took a deep breath and ground his teeth together. He slipped his hand into his jacket and took out his badge. Looking his boss in the eye, he ignored Reed’s open hand and placed his shield gently on the desk. 

He gripped the arms of his chair and rose to leave. “Anything else? Sir?”

“I’ll schedule a hearing with the disciplinary committee,” said Reed, adjusting his glasses and already moving on to the paperwork on his desk. “And remember, you are to have no contact with the Inquisition from this point forward. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Owain was already halfway out the door.

He paced and fumed in the elevator lobby. Shock and new information swirled in his mind. Fiona in a coma? Alexius leading the Circle? _Suspension?_ He shouldn’t have come here at all today. 

It seemed too fantastic to be real. Too neat. Did bad luck and coincidence really explain it all? 

Something was rotten. He could feel it. 

He punched the elevator call button to go up, not down. Getting off on the 12th floor, he made his way to the northwest corner and paused outside Fiona’s office. Checking that the hall was clear, he tried the door. Locked. 

He pulled tools from his pocket and set to work. The lock was typical for the building. He clicked it open in under a minute.

Shutting the door softly behind him, he padded across the plush rug that covered the sitting area near the entrance of the suite. At the back, a desk sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rest of the Circle compound. He took a seat in the chair. 

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly, but there had to be something here. Something to either prove he had been acting on orders, or else to explain how a perfectly healthy woman like Fiona could suddenly fall so gravely ill. 

She kept a neater desk than he did. A large leather blotter covered the center. Her keyboard. A phone. Despite the large monitor that dominated the right side, there were signs of analog habits. On the near left corner sat a heavy hardbound notebook. It was a planner, each day’s schedule plotted out and annotated in the Grand Enchanter’s own neat script. He flipped to the ribbon, which should have marked her last days before the coma, but he found nothing. Torn remnants in the binding proved that several pages had been removed, to include the Conclave and the days immediately before and after. He shut the book and replaced it on the desk. 

He turned to the small legal pad that sat beside the phone. Also blank, and also missing pages. Running his fingers over the top sheet, he could just make out the indentations of whatever had been written on the previous page. He opened the top drawer and fished out a pencil, shading over the paper with a light touch. 

Fragments of phone numbers, a few unintelligible names. And there in the margins, a word he’d just read in Renning’s file: “Redcliffe.”

He tore off the page and slipped it in his pocket, returning the pad and pencil to where he’d found them.

It was then that he noticed the humming. It was so faint, it hadn’t registered at first, but now that he’d heard it, he couldn’t stop hearing it. And he had a feeling he knew what it was. 

He looked everywhere for the source, under the desk, in each of the drawers. It was louder standing, so he turned his eyes at the ceiling. Climbing up on the desk confirmed his suspicions. Stepping carefully, he searched for the spot where the sound was clearest. When he was fairly certain, he reached up and pushed on the ceiling tile. 

It was too dark to see, and he needed more height, so he fetched one of the visitor chairs from the sitting area and stacked it gently on top of the desk, climbing his precarious tower. 

Using his phone as a light, he peered into the ceiling space. It was as he guessed: a hunk of red lyrium the size of his fist sat at the intersection of the tiles. It glowed menacingly in the dark.

 _Shit._ He hadn’t wanted to be right. Grabbing a handful of tissues from the box on the desk, he extracted the lyrium, taking care not to let it touch his skin. At this proximity, it was starting to make him dizzy. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it, but it was critical evidence, and dangerous, and he couldn’t leave it here. 

Wrapping it carefully, he put the lyrium in his pocket, resetting the ceiling and moving the chair back to the floor. He swept his footprints from the desk with his sleeve, then everything was as it was. 

A growing headache pulsed in his temples. Any brain space left buzzed with thoughts about what to do next. He had to alert the Inquisition. Or Reed, at the very least. How long had this gone undetected? Unlikely that anyone at the Circle had ever seen red lyrium, let alone be able to recognize its song. He’d been in here himself a day before the Conclave and noticed nothing. Could prolonged exposure, even at a low level, have caused Fiona’s condition? 

At a minimum, it was part of the puzzle. It would mean her illness was no accident. Someone wanted her out of the picture. And not everyone had access to red lyrium. 

Preoccupied with all this, he didn’t notice the sound of high heels clicking around the corner as he closed the office door and locked it again. Nor did he notice he wasn’t alone until the air crackled with frost magic. It came with a voice just as cold.

“What do you think you’re doing, my dear?”


	2. Chapter 2

Owain turned around slowly, raising his hands in surrender. 

“It’s alright,” he said, “I’m a CIB officer. I’m working for Fiona.”

His accuser was an imperious woman with an ice spell ready. He was already calculating which way to dodge and how fast and whether he could counter it in time. Ideally, he wouldn’t have to do any of those things. Her black hair was cut close, and she was wearing an elegant, blindingly white dress that set off her warm brown complexion. The effect was stunning. And intentional, no doubt. 

Vivienne de Fer. He knew her in passing, and by reputation. Her record at the Ostwick academy was legendary, one of the youngest mages to graduate in a generation. She had gone on to make a name for herself in politics, in and out of the Circle. Currently, she held a seat on the Enchanter’s Council and was Fiona’s sometime rival when it came to the Circle’s policy agenda. 

She looked him up and down, and it felt like a test he wasn’t passing. 

“For Fiona?” Her accent was the height of posh Marcher. “Is the Grand Enchanter issuing orders from her hospital bed? In a coma? If you’re CIB, where are your credentials?”

“It’s— Ah, it’s complicated,” he said, remembering that his badge was no longer in his possession. The last thing he wanted was to be marched back downstairs to prove his identity and explain himself to Reed. “I’m with the Inquisition right now.”

“The Inquisition?” Vivienne raised a brow, as if this made him interesting. “What is your name?”

“Owain Trevelyan.”

“Are you the one who survived the Conclave?”

“That’s me.”

She studied him again and decided something. Waving her spell away in a cloud of frost, she turned and started briskly down the hall. 

“Come with me,” she said over her shoulder. “There are concerns I’d like to discuss.”

Owain hurried after her, breathing a sigh of tentative relief. That could have gone worse. 

It also wasn’t over yet, and he hadn’t even begun to consider all the new angles. What was Madame de Fer’s interest in the Inquisition? Did she want to help? If Alexius was set against them, it might be valuable to have other Council backing. But why? What did she stand to gain? Was this another power play with Fiona out of commission?

When they reached her office, Vivienne shut the door and waved him into the chair in front of her desk. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. Instead, she picked up her phone and dialed a number she seemed to know by memory. 

“Josephine!” she said into the receiver. “It’s Vivienne de Fer. Yes, it has been far too long. How are you, darling?”

He really shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Yes, I’m wondering if you could assist me. You have a member of the Inquisition from the Circle, do you not? An investigator from CIB? Can you tell me his name?”

Smart move. He had to give her that.

“I see. Thank you, my dear, you’ve been an immense help. Yes, absolutely.”

She hung up and tapped her manicured fingers on the desk, eyeing him sharply from across its wide, polished expanse.

“Satisfied?” he asked. 

She flashed him a tolerant smile. “You are who you say you are. That is encouraging. The question remains, however, what were you doing in the Grand Enchanter’s office?”

“My job.”

“For the Circle, or for the Inquisition?”

“Is it one or the other?”

Vivienne crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back in her chair. He continued sitting stiffly in his. 

“Enchanter Trevelyan, what do you know about the current state of affairs in the Circle?”

Very little, he was learning. But it wasn’t a thing to admit. “I know that Gereon Alexius leads the Enchanter’s Council in Fiona’s absence. I know he’s opposed to what the Inquisition is doing.”

“Is that all you know?”

Owain pressed his lips together in silence. Having reached the end of his knowledge, he said nothing and waited for her to go on.

“That Alexius was allowed to take control at all is a travesty,” she said. “Nearly a third of the Council lost their lives at the Conclave, and the district representatives are spineless fools. He played on their fears and put it to a vote almost immediately after Fiona took ill.”

“Where were you?” he asked, mentally tallying the seats on the Council. 

“I was out of the city on a personal matter. Most unfortunate. By the time I returned, it was too late.”

“What does Alexius plan to do with the Circle?”

Vivienne took a deep breath and folded her hands on her knees. “You have no doubt heard of what is happening in Kirkwall? Cor Amladaris and his threats against mage rights? Alexius thinks the answer is deterrence. To become a power in our own right and force them to deal with us as equals.”

“And you disagree?”

“Don’t you?”

He gave it a moment of thought, absently staring at the black and white photos framed artfully on the wall. Abstract architecturals, mostly. 

“We’d only be proving them right,” he said. “Freedom based in fear is unsustainable.”

“Precisely,” said Vivienne with a nod. “I have no interest in an arms race, and neither should anyone else on the Council. But Alexius has convinced them there is no other way. They’ve felt besieged since the Conclave.”

“And you think the Inquisition can help.”

“The city is in chaos, and the Circle with it. We must offer them an alternative. The Inquisition may be our best hope of restoring order.”

“What’s in it for you?”

She arched a brow. Maybe he should have been less blunt. She answered anyway. 

“The same thing you or anyone gets by fighting this corruption: the chance to decide my fate and the fate of this city. I won’t sit quietly and wait for the destruction of everything I’ve worked for.”

Owain almost laughed out loud. They might not be so different after all. 

He remembered the lyrium in his pocket. “Does the word ‘Redcliffe’ mean anything to you?’’

“No,” Vivienne replied, frowning. “Why?”

He shook his head. “I read it in Fiona’s notes. In her office. Do you believe her illness is a coincidence?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”

He took the crystal from his pocket and placed it in the center of the desk, pulling back the tissue to expose it. 

Vivienne recoiled, pushing back from the desk and breaking her smooth facade for the first time in their conversation. “Is that—”

“Lyrium? Yes. And it’s red. The latest import from the Deep Roads. It’s what makes Amladaris’s Red Templars what they are.”

She glanced at him and then leaned closer, examining the ore with a scientific eye. Owain had a vague idea that her specialty had been alchemy once, before all the politics.

“Where did you find this?” she asked, without looking up. 

“Also in Fiona’s office. Hidden in the ceiling.”

“Does it always sound like this?”

“Yes. And the headaches. It’s worse when there’s more. Do you think it could have caused her condition?”

“It’s certainly possible,” she ventured. “The headaches could be symptoms of longer-term damage. To be sure, I’d need further study. May I keep this? Temporarily?”

He didn’t see the harm. The Inquisition had plenty of specimens already. “Please. But be careful. I wouldn’t keep it here.”

“I have a contact at the Institute. I’ll have a look there.”

“Someone you trust?”

She sat up and shot him a withering look. “You needn’t lecture _me_ about discretion, Enchanter Trevelyan.”

He really did laugh, this time. “I didn’t think so. I’ll speak with the Inquisition and see what we can do for the Circle. And if you find anything, I’m sure we’d like to know.”

“Very well,” she said, with a note of finality.

He had a feeling their audience was at an end. He stood and took his leave, closing the door on Madame de Fer. She was still staring at the hunk of red lyrium. 

Its glow cast a haze over all. 

\---

Cassandra pulled the next file from the stack. “Who is next?”

She and Cullen sat in the observation room in the basement of the Haven police precinct. She had offered to help him clear his backlog of Grey Warden interviews. It was nearly lunchtime, but they had only gotten through two, and there were many more to go.

“Downes, Gabriel,” read Cullen from the list on his clipboard. 

She watched as a pair of uniformed officers brought a slim, middle-aged man into the interrogation room. He was wearing a rumpled Grey Warden uniform that looked like he had been sleeping in it for days, as he probably had. His dusty brown hair seemed to float in wisps around his head as they sat him down in the metal chair. His hands remained cuffed, forcing him to raise them both to push his glasses up his beak-like nose. One of the officers nodded at the double mirror to signal they were ready. 

“What’s his story?” Cassandra asked.

Cullen flipped through his notes and tipped his head to the side. “This is an interesting one. Grey Warden researcher. Stationed at Adamant about five years, a Warden for thirteen. His area of specialty is the Blight. Must have lived through it if he’s been around that long.”

“How did someone like him get caught up in the raid?”

Cullen shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time, is my guess. He doesn’t look like much of a fighter. My officers found him in his lab when they swept it after the battle. Didn’t put up any resistance at all.”

“I forget the Wardens have scientists in their ranks,” she said, watching Downes adjust his glasses again on the other side of the window. 

“Not everyone can be a foot soldier. I suppose someone needs to study what they find in the Deep Roads.”

“Then perhaps he knows about the red lyrium.”

“Willing to bet he does,” said Cullen, barely suppressing a sizable yawn. He pinched at his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. 

“Headache?”

“Mostly just tired. Been up since before dawn. Haven’t been sleeping lately.”

“Why don’t I take this one then?” she offered. 

“Are you sure?”

“He looks harmless enough.”

Cullen smirked. “You could try a light touch for once. Maybe he’ll talk if you’re nice.”

“If you wanted _nice,_ you called the wrong woman.”

But she wouldn’t be needlessly harsh, of course. She went up to the break room to fetch some coffee. She could use the boost herself. Downes, too, might appreciate this small kindness. As she balanced the two cups in her hands and leaned on the door to the interrogation room, she was struck by the memory of the last time she had done this, with Trevelyan, sole survivor of the Conclave, waiting on the other side. That had ended far differently than expected. 

The Warden looked up when she entered, giving her the impression of a startled bird. He eased after a moment, perhaps relieved to see it was not the uniformed officers come to take him away again. 

“Would you like some coffee, Dr. Downes?” she said, setting the cup in front of his hands. 

“Why yes, thank you, madam.” He wrapped his hands around it gratefully, carrying it to his lips. The steam fogged his wire-framed glasses. “It’s been days since I’ve had any coffee.” He sighed and blinked a few times, coming to life. “You’re different than the others,” he said, looking her over as if truly seeing her for the first time. 

“Yes,” she said, sitting down in the other chair. “My name is Cassandra Pentaghast, and I am a Seeker of Truth. That is what we are trying to do here: find the truth.”

“The truth,” he repeated, looking down into his cup. “And what is the truth, Seeker Pentaghast? Is it what we want? What we’re told? What we see with our own eyes?”

 _Ugh. Academics._ She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was not here to wax philosophical. 

“How long have you been a Warden, Dr. Downes?” she asked, ignoring his rhetorical questions. 

He set down his coffee and considered. “Oh, I would say at least twelve years? I joined a few years before the Blight.”

“Why did you join?” 

“I volunteered, of course. They took anyone in those days. It had been decades since the last Blight, and interest in the Grey Wardens was at a low. Not much glory to be had on routine patrols, you see.”

“Is that what you wanted? Glory?”

He chuckled and waved his hands, awkward in the cuffs. “No, no. At least, not the kind soldiers seek. No.” He stared off into some unseen distance, with a manic gleam that had not been there before. “I was motivated by something quite different. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by the Blight and the darkspawn. Where do they come from? What is the source of their corruption? The Wardens and their connection to the darkspawn, the Joining ceremony itself—I longed to experience it for myself. And I’ve made it my work since.”

“What are your principal duties for the Wardens?”

“Research, mainly. Mysteries we find in the Deep Roads. Blight sickness. The Joining. Did you know we’ve managed to vastly improve the formula since I joined? Survival rates are nearly seventy-five percent nowadays.”

“Impressive,” she said. It was not merely flattery—in times past, it would have been more likely for a Grey Warden recruit to die in the Joining than not. Downes sat a bit straighter and smiled to himself as he lifted his cup. 

“What can you tell me about red lyrium?” she asked, now that he was in a good mood. 

“Oh, well now that is an interesting subject,” he said, hiking his glasses up his face. “The first anyone had ever seen of it was six, seven months ago? One of the mining teams came across an ancient Thaig, long buried. They began experiencing some strange symptoms, called us in to investigate, and that is where we found it. No one had ever seen such a thing. Can you imagine?”

He was waiting for her to speak. “It does appear rather... irregular,” she said.

“Indeed! We hardly knew what to make of it at first, until we ran it through some tests. It has many properties in common with ordinary lyrium, but with key differences. It has some… unusual effects.”

“Like what?”

“Well… Exposure to the raw crystal has been observed to have physical and neurological effects over time. These tend to vary from person to person. And if introduced into the body... From, er… animal studies, we presume there may be rather toxic consequences, unless one has an existing tolerance for lyrium.”

“Such as a Templar?”

“Yes, quite. That would be one such example.”

“When did the Wardens begin supplying the Templars with red lyrium?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about such things,” he said, shifting his hands dismissively. “You would have to ask someone else. The Warden-Commander, perhaps.” He squirmed impatiently in his chair, so she searched for a way to get him rambling again. 

“What is red lyrium, exactly?”

“Ah, that is the question, is it not?” He beamed at her. The light in his eyes was unsettling. “Getting to the very heart of the issue, Madam Seeker? The curious thing about red lyrium is that it shares characteristics with the Blight. My working hypothesis is that it is none other than ordinary lyrium that has been tainted!”

Cassandra had no idea what to say to that. Was such a thing even possible? For a mineral to be infected, like any human or animal?

Downes tilted his head and blinked at her. When she didn’t speak, he continued. “You know, you’re not the first who has shown such an interest in red lyrium?” 

“No?” she replied, still processing his earlier statement. “There were others?”

“A fellow came to Adamant a few months ago. We seldom get any visitors. He was particularly concerned with the lyrium’s interactions with the Veil, its potential for boosting magical abilities. To be honest, I hadn’t even considered it! He was a mage himself, I believe, quite a scholar in his own right. Although, as I recall, he was chiefly interested in my research on the Taint. Sent him away with a copy of my notes.”

“A mage?” She leaned over the table, paying full attention now. “Was he from the Circle? What was his name?”

Downes turned his eyes toward the ceiling and scratched at his chin. “A- something, I think it was. Alec or Alex? Alexis! Yes, that must be it!” Satisfied with his memory, he smiled to himself and drank the rest of his coffee. 

\---

Owain had always hated the smell of hospitals. There was something oppressive about the mix of illness and decay and stale recycled air that no amount of disinfectant could ever seem to clear. It hit him now as he stepped off the elevator onto the ninth floor of the Circle’s medical center. It was the ward dedicated to caring for the most complex cases, those for whom treatment wasn’t always clear-cut. Or even possible. 

He had wrangled Fiona’s location from a giggly staffer at the front desk downstairs, and he headed there now with the easy confidence of someone who had every right to be there. Checking the room number again, he tapped twice on the door. When there was no answer, he ducked inside. 

The directions were good. Here was the Grand Enchanter, one of the most powerful mages in all of Thedas, a decorated hero of the Blight, and the formidable leader of the Circle, reduced to a frail, wasted woman in a hospital bed. There was a tube at her nose for air and a line in her arm for fluids. A host of monitors chirped and blinked on either side. 

It was heartbreaking to see. Had the Circle ever needed her more? 

He switched on the overhead light, since it was all the same to her. Better visibility did not improve matters.

Of all the officers she could have sent to the Conclave, why had she chosen him? It was a question he’d been wrestling ever since the disaster. And still he had no answer. 

They had spoken before. He had served under her during the Blight, briefly. She was a Grey Warden commander at the time, head of the battalion his unit had joined for a harrowing battle just outside the city. But he had no memory of any significant interactions. He was sure they hadn’t spoken at all since she returned to the Circle after the war. He didn’t even think she remembered his name. 

And yet, she _had._ She had called him into her office, addressed him by name, and talked about his history at the Circle as if they were old friends. Things she could have found in his records, of course, and maybe she had, but it was without the cold gloss of pretense he’d expect from a calculated move like that. 

Genuine or not, it was enough to send him obediently to Haven the next day, only to have everything end in chaos. And as for his orders and his standing here at the Circle, it would have been fine if Fiona was still in charge. But here they were instead. Why him? Why her? 

Maybe it was the light or a trick of his mind, but a glint of something on Fiona’s face caught his eye. He stepped closer, leaning his hands on the plastic rail along her bed. It was not his imagination. From here, he could see a faint glitter of red, just at the corners of her eyes. As if her tears had turned ruby. 

Or lyrium. 

He looked again, and now there were other things he noticed. Her skin was flushed, blood vessels dark and defined, though her complexion was far from fair. The same sparkling red edged her lips, her nostrils, her fingernails. And from her whole body emanated heat beyond any fever he had ever seen. The monitors hummed on, like all was well. 

He’d stayed long enough. Switching off the light, he headed for the door. Walking back up the hall, he passed a nurse carrying a tray with a syringe and a collection of small vials—medicines, probably—except one, filled with a swirling red potion. Only days ago, he had held one just like it. 

The nurse cast him a doubtful look as he slowed for a better view. He pasted on a perfectly forgettable smile and nodded as he walked on by. He could hear her pause as she turned to watch him, but he did not stop, and to his relief, her footsteps continued down the hall. 

There was no doubt in his mind now that red lyrium was the reason for Fiona’s condition. But now the evidence pointed to much more than just the specimen in her office. What exactly were the effects of that much Red on the human body? And were they reversible?

He had almost reached the elevators, where the murmur of voices interrupted his thoughts. The speaker was a balding man in his late sixties dressed in a tweed jacket and slacks, clearly the authoritative one. Gereon Alexius. Owain knew his face. He was speaking to a tall young man in a dark blue uniform that Owain took for Militia Branch. An escort? Bodyguard?

He slowed as he neared the corner, pausing to read the notices posted on a nearby bulletin board. Hand-washing reminders, free flu shots, a flier about a missing bracelet—sentimental value. Try as he might to hear the words exchanged in the lobby, he couldn’t make out the content of the conversation. 

The elevator rang and the doors clunked open. From the edge of his vision he watched Alexius and his companion get in. He waited until the doors closed before swiftly crossing the space and pushing the button to follow them down. He had no real plan and no real desire to be stuck in close quarters with the Circle’s interim leader and his henchman, but maybe if he caught the next car he could pick up their trail downstairs...

That possibility was becoming more remote by the second. He watched the lift they had taken zip directly to ground level, while the other lingered mysteriously three floors away. 

The delay also meant he was no longer alone. The man was around Owain’s age, perhaps a few inches shorter. His bronzed skin was flawless, his black hair and moustache styled in a way that looked effortless but almost certainly was not. He wore tight jeans and a leather jacket adorned with metal studs and a perplexing number of buckles and straps. It was the kind of thing meant to be noticed. 

Owain watched as the man stepped forward to stab at the call button again, though the light was already lit. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “Is this thing broken? In a hospital!”

He sighed and turned to Owain, who pulled his mouth in a polite smile that he hoped would head off any attempt at conversation. He was wrong. 

“Visiting someone?” asked the man. 

“More or less,” Owain replied. “A colleague.”

“Ah, sorry to hear it. Rather hopeless, if a case ends up here. Or so I’m told.”

“And you?” Owain asked. The elevator was still nowhere close.

“An old friend. Nothing more to be done for him, I’m afraid. It’s cruelty to keep holding on, but his father refuses to let go. Insists on trying yet another obscure treatment. Warden quackery, in my opinion…” He shook his head. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.” 

The man held out his hand. “Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” 

That explained the accent. Owain took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Owain Trevelyan, most recently, and always, of Ostwick.”

“A local! Tell me, is the weather here always this wonderful?”

“It grows on you.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

The elevator arrived at last. It was the car Alexius had taken, back for a return trip. The other was still unaccounted for but no longer their problem. Owain held the door as they got in. 

“So what brings you to March City?” he asked. 

“Work, of course,” said Pavus. “My old mentor offered me a position at the Institute. Mostly research, minimal teaching. Too good to pass on, really. Even if it did require a move South.”

“What's your research?”

“Interdisciplinary. A touch of anatomy, systems biology, the intersection of our spirits and the Fade. Life, death, that sort of thing.”

Owain chuckled at the sanitized description. “You’re a necromancer.”

“How quaint!” Pavus scoffed and rolled his eyes. “An old-fashioned term, but yes. In a word. Though it’s not like we’re raising the dead these days.”

“I didn’t even know they still taught it at the academy.”

“It is one of the more challenging specialties. And vastly misunderstood. The superstitions don’t help. Fortunately, Alexius believes in diversifying our study of magic, not limiting it for the sake of a few Chantry fanatics.”

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into the lobby. It was mostly empty, save the receptionists at the front desk. Owain studiously avoided eye contact with the one who’d told him about Fiona. 

“Your mentor is Gereon Alexius?” he asked as they walked toward the front doors. The name had sparked a renewed interest in conversation. Maybe it wasn’t a waste of time after all. 

Pavus stopped where he stood and eyed Owain shrewdly. “You have an awful lot of questions. Is this an interrogation? What are you, a cop or something?” 

Lucky guess? It took Owain by surprise, and it probably showed on his face. He had no ready reply. 

Pavus laughed darkly. “Maker’s breath. You are, aren’t you? I was actually joking.” He resumed their journey across the lobby. “Not to worry. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You?” Pavus looked him over again. “You do have this mood about you. But I wouldn’t call it obvious, no. I just have a sense.” He narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t done anything illegal, have I?”

“Not in the past ten minutes,” said Owain. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m very off-duty, you could say.”

“Oh, good. Well, you asked about Alexius. I’ve known him for a long time. Like a father. We argued upstairs just now. It’s his son, you see.”

“Your friend. I’m sorry. You mentioned the Wardens. Is it the Taint?”

Pavus nodded slowly. “Felix contracted it shortly after the Blight. A freak accident, really. It’s a miracle they’ve kept him alive this long, but they’re running out of options. Alexius is beside himself. He’d do anything. Felix is all he has left.”

They reached the doors, which opened automatically, and stopped at the curb outside. The sky had brightened, though it was still cloudy. 

“Well, he’s head of the Circle now,” said Owain. “That must help.”

“I’m not sure anything helps now.” Pavus sighed and reached into his jacket. A pair of gold aviators flashed from the collar of his shirt. He pulled out a business card. “Pleasure to meet you, Trevelyan. If ever you find yourself in need of a _necromancer,_ you’ll know where to find me, yes?”

Owain took the card and nodded. Pavus flipped his sunglasses open and left, heading toward the research institute at the southern end of the compound. Owain dropped the card in his pocket and went the opposite way, in the direction of the main gates. 

_Alexius is beside himself. He’d do anything._

The words played in his head, an ominous beat as his feet hit the pavement. Desperation like that was a dangerous quality in someone with so much power. Ripe for abuse. Or exploitation. What might Alexius do to save his son? What might he already have done? 

Owain was three blocks from the train station when he noticed them. The sidewalks were sparsely populated, and the pair of them stood out: a man and a woman in plainclothes, moving with purpose but not too much purpose, carefully adjusting their speed to be never more than a block behind him, nor closer than a few paces. They looked vaguely familiar. It was hard to tell for sure, at a distance and with their tinted glasses. 

Not surprising, knowing Reed. Owain had no intention of obeying his orders, after all. He didn’t mean to be so easy to follow either. To that end, he put on a burst of speed to make it through the next intersection before the light, then hurried down the stairs to the station. 

The last train downtown had just departed. Cursing his luck, he tucked himself behind a column near the end of the platform and settled in for the wait. 

Minutes ticked by as his head start evaporated. The platform slowly filled with people, including his new friends. They stood at the edge about halfway down. 

The train pulled in, and passengers streamed through the doors. His pursuers did not board but stood by, scanning the crowd. Owain weighed his options. He did not want them tracking him to City Hall, nor did he want to waste his time leading them aimlessly around the city. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but if he didn’t get on this train, there was no way he could escape their notice on an empty platform. 

So he stepped out and joined the rush. As if on cue, the pair of agents did, too, boarding the adjacent car. But as the chime sounded for the closing doors, Owain ducked out, just in time to hear them shut at his back. Through the window, he watched the agents trade looks of mild panic, but there was nothing they could do. The brakes released, and the train eased out of the station. 

He smiled to himself as he ran back up the stairs and over to the platform for the Ostwick line. If he couldn’t return to City Hall just yet, he’d go home instead. 

When he arrived on his street, there was a lone sedan parked at the curb on the opposite side a couple buildings down. While a few of his neighbors owned cars, it was not one he had seen before. And for a residential street at this hour, there should have been none. He pretended not to notice. As he reached the steps to his front door, he could make out the silhouette of the driver, sitting idly behind the wheel. 

He let himself in and bounded up the stairs to his apartment, feeling a wave of relief as he crossed the threshold into his own space. 

It didn’t last long, as he remembered the car outside. His heart sank. What if their surveillance was more active than that? He went through his kitchen and living room with a critical eye. Everything looked in order, just as he’d left it that morning. He twitched the blinds at a window facing the street. The car was still there, along with its driver. 

Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. 

But did he really want to ditch a tail every morning on his way to Haven? It would only be a matter of time before they traced him back to the Inquisition. And then he’d really be in trouble. It wasn’t worth the risk. 

He needed to go somewhere. But where? 

He thought about Pentaghast, briefly. He remembered her apartment. It was easy for his mind to wander there, in those moments he had lived and re-lived a thousand times over. All the things he could have done differently, the things he could have said. If he hadn’t simply left. It was too late to take it back. And pointless to speculate. He had tried. 

It wasn’t an option. It was _not._

What about Althea? His best friend from the Circle days, she had moved into her new place a little over a week ago. There was a couch he could sleep on. And she owed him a favor. 

He went to his bedroom and dragged a duffel bag from the floor of his closet. He stuffed some clothes and essentials inside. Running through a mental list, he reached deep into the hangers and unearthed the dusty garment bag containing his tuxedo, last worn two years ago at least. He prayed it still fit. He almost forgot shoes, doubling back to dig them out of a box on an upper shelf. He shoved those in the bag, too.

After a final check, he slung his bags over his shoulder and left. The back door emptied onto a narrow alley behind the buildings on his block. He followed it to the street at the end, where he hailed a cab and dialed Althea’s number. 

\---

Trevelyan was late. It was unlike him. Cassandra knew he had planned to be at the Circle that morning, but his errand was not expected to take all day. The meeting had started twenty minutes ago, and still he was nowhere to be found. She was not worried, exactly, but annoyed. The gala was an important mission, and this briefing was critical. She would have to fill him in later when he should have been here himself. 

Josephine was running through the information on the slides projected behind her. The fundraiser for Leliana’s campaign was to be hosted by Celene Valmont, current head of her family’s astronomically wealthy holding company. Was it really wise to be accepting help from such quarters? Leliana had assured them that Celene’s dealings were all above board, whatever her family’s past reputation. Cassandra was not convinced. _Politics._

“Security for a _masked_ ball?” Cullen was rifling through the papers in his folder. Each of them had been issued an identical file. “This is madness. Our job is difficult enough already. You expect us to watch a crowd when we can’t even see their faces?”

“I agree,” Cassandra added, even if Cullen’s indignation was more than enough for both of them. “Can this not be changed? How will we identify and track any threats?”

“I understand your concern,” said Josie. “But it is Orlesian tradition. Celene has insisted. I’m afraid it is non-negotiable.”

Cullen grumbled something unflattering about Orlesians under his breath. 

Cassandra sighed. “Are the funds truly necessary?” 

“It is not simply financial support,” Josie explained, brandishing the remote she was using as a pointer. “Amladaris has spent hundreds of thousands of his own fortune on advertising and events. We cannot afford to fall behind, even if we do have popularity on our side. Celene is also highly influential among certain circles, circles that may be uneasy about Leliana’s message of change. Her endorsement could sway many to our side.”

“We can mitigate the risk.” Leliana spoke up from the head of the table. “There will be a strict invitation list, and we will fully vet all attendees prior to the ball. We’ll also set up a mandatory security checkpoint at the entrance, here.” 

She gestured at a map of the March Museum of Natural History, which was to be the venue. “Everyone will be required to unmask and present photo identification. Furthermore, we have narrowed the specific threats to only a few individuals...”

Cassandra’s attention was turned by the opening of the door. It was Trevelyan, finally, with an armload of belongings and an exasperated air. He walked the length of the room and stacked his things against the back wall before taking his usual seat to her right. She shot him a questioning look. He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and sighed, pulling his briefing folder forward and beginning to flip through its contents. 

He did not look at her further or try to speak, so she left it for now, turning back to Josephine’s presentation. 

“...the subject of death threats,” said Josie, as Cassandra tuned in again. “Some appear to be credible. We believe they stem from trouble on the Valmont company board. Her cousin, Gaspard de Chalons, is said to be gathering support for a takeover. He was a favorite of the former Chair and the heir apparent before Celene seized control.”

A photo of a handsome, middle-aged man with a shaved head and sour expression flashed onto the screen. It was followed by a rather pale, blond woman who shared much of his same features. 

“His sister, Florianne de Chalons, is his ally on the board and may be even more ruthless than he is. It is said she would do anything to achieve her goals. She is not beyond blackmail, or even murder. Nothing has been proven, however. 

“Lastly, there is Briala.” Josie flipped to a picture of an elven woman, perhaps in her thirties, with curling brown hair and defiant eyes. “Celene’s former deputy, and rumored to be her lover as well. Celene dismissed her late last year in the wake of a scandal. Few details have been made public, but many believe she took the fall for her boss. Her grievances may be rather personal in nature.”

Rylen let out a low whistle from his seat next to Cullen. “Must be rich to rack up enemies like that, eh?”

“Will they be in attendance?” asked Cassandra. 

“Gaspard and Florianne, certainly,” Leliana replied. “Celene believes in keeping her enemies close. And as members of her board and family, she could hardly deny their invitations without causing an uproar. Briala has not been invited, but it’s possible she may try something nonetheless.”

“I suppose we have no choice?” said Cullen, scanning the invitation list in his hands. 

“I’m afraid not.” Leliana smoothed a finger down her own copy of the list, her face resolute. “Run the names through the usual databases, and we can divide them for further research. Cassandra and Trevelyan can assist you. If you’re unsure of anyone, send them to me for final approval. Josie will handle the logistics.” 

Cullen let out a long sigh and nodded in resignation. They had their orders. 

Chairs rolled back from the table as the meeting adjourned. Cassandra turned to Trevelyan, but he was already up, striding toward the front of the room. He said something to Leliana, who nodded, and they went out the door together. Cassandra stood puzzled for a moment, then gathered both of their files to bring back to her office. 

Josephine stopped her at the door. “Cassandra! You saw my slide about our dress code for the gala?”

She had, but it was among the least of her concerns. “I had assumed my uniform would suffice?”

“You and Trevelyan are assigned to watch the galleries. It is essential that you blend in as best as possible. No uniforms.”

“I suppose I could wear a suit, perhaps.”

Josie winced, as if Cassandra’s response had caused her actual physical pain. “Do you not have something more formal? An evening gown, perhaps?”

Cassandra snorted. “I have not worn a dress in years, much less a _gown_.”

But instead of the disappointment she expected, Josie smiled with delight. “Ahh! Well, not to worry,” she said brightly, hooking her arm around Cassandra’s and giving it a pat. “Leliana and I will take care of you.”

She meant it to be reassuring, but it was somehow anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting Cass in a dress, and no one can stop me! :D


	3. Chapter 3

It could have been worse. 

That was the highest praise she could summon for the dress Josephine and Leliana had selected for her. Eager to get the whole experience over with, Cassandra had gone with the first one that seemed remotely palatable. It was simple, a floor-grazing column of deep red silk, sleeveless, and cut high in front. Its only daring feature was the reverse, where the silk draped low, open to midway down her back. 

It was reasonably comfortable. The fabric was just heavy enough to hang well, and though it was fitted to her waist, it flared past her hips. She could move in it easily enough. And she liked the color. 

She still felt out of her element as she climbed the stone steps to the front entrance of the March Museum just before sunset. At least she had drawn a hard line at the shoes, choosing a practical pair of flats over the more elaborate options Leliana suggested. The very idea was preposterous—how could she chase a suspect in heels, let alone fight, if need be? Did they want her to do her job or not?

The security check was set up in the museum’s lobby. It was a cavernous space three stories tall, ringed by walkways at each floor and lined on either side with stone columns that reached from the marble floor to the ceiling painted with constellations of the night sky. Passages branched off toward galleries in three directions. The grandest of these was the great hall straight ahead, where most of the evening's events were to take place. 

Rylen was near the entrance, issuing orders to the officers helping with setup. _He_ had somehow escaped Josephine’s edict against uniforms. Cassandra caught his eye as she came through the doors, and his face broke into a wide grin. He greeted her with a nod but made no comment, for which she was thankful, then turned to review a checklist with his team. 

Cullen and Trevelyan were standing further inside, next to a table reserved for communications. It sat between two columns and was covered in laptops, radios, and coiled cables. Balanced on one corner was a tray of canapés, to which the men were helping themselves. Josephine thought of everything. 

At least Cassandra wasn’t the only one forced to dress up. Cullen and Trevelyan were both wearing black tie and dinner jackets. She had never seen either of them in anything so formal, and the change in context was jarring. In fairness, she supposed, the same could be said for her. 

Cullen was a very handsome man, objectively speaking, and not terrible to look at, but her eyes were drawn to Trevelyan, and for the moment, she could not tear them away. She tried not to notice the cut of his jacket, the way it hugged his shoulders or tapered to his waist. But the attire suited him, and he wore it with a kind of ease that spoke louder than clothing alone could. He laughed at something Cullen said, and she was struck by an utterly irrational desire for him to look at her like that. 

He noticed her first, his eyes glossing over her, then darting back when he realized it was her. His smile slipped into something else, his jaw going slack as he stared. Then he checked himself and turned away, laughing quietly and brushing a hand over his hair. 

She took back her earlier thought. Of course he would laugh. She was a joke. 

Cullen turned to see what had distracted him. “Cassandra! I see they got to you, too?”

“Josie insisted,” she said, rolling her eyes and setting aside her disappointment. She had no right to it, after all. “It is ridiculous. I still don't see why uniforms could not have served just as well.”

“You won’t hear any argument from me,” said Cullen, with a grimace. He stretched his shoulders and tugged at his shirt collar. “I feel like a waiter. Or a penguin.”

Trevelyan said nothing. She could feel his eyes drift over her again, but when confronted he had already looked away. 

“Is everything ready?” she asked. 

“Nearly so,” said Cullen. “Rylen has everything under control out here. Josie and Leliana will be in the hall handling the guests. You and Trevelyan will be there watching, and I’ll float in between as needed.”

The click-clack of heels echoed in the empty lobby, and then Josephine was upon them. She wore a long, flowing dress of gold chiffon that wrapped artfully around her bodice and twisted up over her shoulder to flutter after her like a ray of sunshine. Her hair was done in a more elaborate version of her everyday bun. Cassandra was suddenly aware of having merely pinned her braid around her head as she always did.

“Cassandra, you look wonderful!” Josephine greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, which she stiffly endured. “Ah, and you, as well, gentlemen,” she said, beaming at Cullen and Trevelyan. She had been carrying a stack of shiny, glittering objects in her hand, and she passed them out now. “But you mustn’t forget these. You are to blend in, remember.”

They were masks, in the Orlesian style. The one Josie pressed into Cassandra’s hands was covered in gaudy gold foil and edged with a lace-like pattern. Trevelyan had gotten off easy with plain silver. Cullen was not so lucky. He stood sputtering at the mask he had been issued. It was pearly white and trimmed in nothing less than a fringe of white feathers. 

“No, they are not optional,” said Josie with a pointed look at Cullen, who was clearly about to raise a protest. “At least for the start of the evening. Guests should be arriving shortly. Don’t forget the schedule: dinner will be served at seven, with speeches during the second and third courses. Dancing and mingling to follow. We expect this to be the period of greatest risk, so please track your targets closely, particularly if they leave the main hall. First floor galleries will be open to guests. And everyone must be out by midnight.”

Having been over this countless times, they all nodded their understanding.

Josie clasped her hands and looked around at the three of them, smiling radiantly again. “Here’s to a wonderful evening!”

Cassandra took a deep breath but couldn’t find it in her to return the smile. In her opinion, it could not be over soon enough. 

\---

She and Trevelyan took up a position on the balcony that ran the perimeter of the great hall. It was dotted with exhibits on the ancient flora and fauna of the Free Marches, but there were few guests, and from this vantage point they could easily watch the proceedings below. Cocktails and dinner had gone without incident, as well as the speeches. Dessert was being served, some frilly confection on white plates. 

Overall, it was turning out to be a rather boring evening. Since many of the guests downstairs had removed their masks for dinner, she had given up on hers, letting it hang loosely around her neck. Trevelyan was now wearing his on the back of his head. 

She spotted Leliana at the front of the room, in a gown of shimmering blue-green satin. She was standing beside Celene, who was introducing her to a circle of well-heeled supporters. She shook each of their hands in turn, trading small talk and making all of them laugh in the polite, impersonal way that was standard for such occasions. Cassandra sighed at the tediousness of it all. 

“Wish you were down there?” asked Trevelyan, who must have sensed her mood. 

“Absolutely not,” she said, making no effort to hide her disdain. “You?”

He laughed. “Kissing ass and playing politics? For five hundred a plate? I’d rather be eaten by one of those.” He nodded at the rather complete skeleton of a high dragon that hung from the skylit ceiling. It cast a shadow over the party below. 

She followed his gaze upwards. “Did you know my ancestors used to hunt them?” 

“Is that true?”

“Oh, yes. There are many legends in Nevarra about the dragon-slaying Pentaghasts.”

“Are you the reason they’re extinct?”

“Maybe so. As children, my brother and I used to reenact the stories. It was a favorite game of ours.”

He squinted at her, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You know, that’s not really surprising? I can see you fighting a dragon. Stabbing it in the neck with a sword.” He mimed the action with his fist. “It kind of suits you.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “I could save you from being eaten.”

“My knight in shining armor,” he said, putting his hand over his heart.

She snorted and punched him in the shoulder. He pretended to be in pain, reeling backwards and clutching at his arm. 

“Stop.” She shook her head but couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. 

When he joined her again at the balcony, she caught him stealing a glance, up, down, and away. 

“For what it’s worth,” he said, leaning his arms on the railing, “I don’t think it’s ridiculous.”

“What?”

“You in a dress. I don’t think it’s ridiculous.” He turned and looked at her fully. His eyes were a clear, dark grey—beautiful—and she could feel herself blush at what he had said and not said.

Not knowing what else to do, she turned aside. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t.”

They stood and watched the crowd mill in the hall below. Waiters cleared the dessert plates. The orchestra started up, prompting a few enterprising guests to move into the space marked out for dancing. Leliana was speaking with Florianne now. Celene danced with Gaspard, just one of the many pairs sailing across the floor in time with the music. Like the rest of the evening, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. Not a thing out of place. 

“Hey. You want to dance?” 

“What?” She was startled by the question. “Here? Now? You can’t be serious.” 

Trevelyan's eyes went wide and flickered in their depths. She knew then with absolute certainty that he _had_ been serious after all. She panicked, and words tumbled out to shore up her position. “We cannot— What if something happens? We may have an assassin to catch. We are here on a mission, not to attend the ball. We should do our job and get out of here as soon as possible.”

He breathed a laugh, and something shut in his expression. He smiled with his lips but not his eyes. “Yeah. You’re right. Of course you are. We’re here to do a job.” He turned his face away and leaned on the railing again, tapping his foot against a baluster. 

The orchestra moved to a new piece, this one slow and sweeping. Romantic. 

Trevelyan’s foot stilled, and he stood tall, pulling his jacket straight. “I’m going to get a drink,” he said, with another smile that was not a smile. “I’ll be back.” Without waiting for an answer, he headed off toward the stairs.

She watched him walk away, full of questions. She had been right to refuse him, hadn’t she? Even if the night had proven uneventful, the consequences of their mission were life and death. The last thing they needed was a distraction. Then why did she feel like she had said no to much more than a dance? Why was there this ache in her chest?

Just as Trevelyan reached the stairs to the lower gallery, Leliana and Josephine appeared at the top of them. He nodded in greeting but did not stop to talk, descending resolutely out of sight.

Leliana and Josephine exchanged a look, then noticed Cassandra at the other end of the balcony. They came to join her, curbing any further speculation about Trevelyan and his motives. 

Or not. “Cassandra! What have you done to that man?” asked Leliana as they drew up beside her. 

“What could you possibly mean by that,” she snapped. It was too defensive, and she knew it.

Leliana and Josephine shared a smile, as if her answer only reinforced their theories, whatever they might be. 

“He looks at you very well,” said Josie. “It’s quite romantic.”

“He does no such thing.”

“Have you really not noticed?” Leliana now; it was a coordinated attack. “You know he’s only here because of you?”

“Nonsense,” she insisted. “He is here as a representative of the Circle.”

Leliana furrowed her brow. “Did he not tell you?” she asked, serious now. 

Tell her what? 

“They suspended him for working with the Inquisition. Pulled his badge. He asked me to do something because he didn’t want you to do this mission on your own. So I made him a deputy of my office for now, until he’s reinstated.”

She had had no idea. Thinking back, perhaps it explained his mood that afternoon when he returned from the Circle. But why would he keep such a thing from her? 

“No, he didn’t tell me,” she said. 

“I’m sure he just didn’t want you to worry,” said Josie. 

Leliana smiled and said no more on the subject. “That dress is lovely on you, Cassandra. The color suits you perfectly. The shoes, though. A shame we couldn’t talk you into heels.”

\---

Owain skirted the edge of the crowd downstairs, making his way to one of the bars at the far end of the room. The Seeker’s rejection still rang in his ears, along with the relentlessly romantic music he was doing his best not to hear. 

Why did he insist on making things harder for himself? Earlier that evening, he had resolved to play it cool, to follow her lead and keep things professional, if that’s what she wanted. But that was before he’d seen her, before she’d walked in wearing that dress and all of it had gone out the window. Maker, she was beautiful. For a moment there on that balcony, he had thought— 

Fuck. It didn’t matter what he thought. This injury was self-inflicted. That was the worst part of all. 

He pulled up to the bar set in the shadow of a taxidermied halla and had just joined the line when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Althea. He retreated to a nook by the windows and took the call.

“Did you get it?” he asked. Althea worked as an instructor at the Circle academy but used to run training for militia recruits and sometimes still did. He had given her Renning’s information and was hoping she’d have access to records he didn’t. 

“Not exactly,” she said. “My clearance is no better than yours. Maybe worse.”

He groaned, ready to hear more bad news. 

“So I couldn’t get anything more on your guy. But I did run a cross-check on that code name, Redcliffe. And it came up on a couple other records.”

Why hadn’t he thought to do that? “There are others?”

“Two more. I’ll send you their information now.”

“Anything notable?”

“Well, they’re all MB officers for sure. Pretty talented, according to their files. Ranks, awards, medals, even. We’re not talking the bottom of the barrel.”

“Any clue who’s running the operation?”

“That I couldn’t find.”

“Too bad,” he said, as his phone pinged with a notification about the email she had promised. “But it’s something.” He paused to click open the message, checking that the contents were sound. Photos, scans of their basic records. _Kira Blackburn. Mathias Sarvadi._ He memorized their names and faces.

“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?” she asked, when he had been quiet for too long.

“You don't want to know.”

“That bad, huh?” He swore he could hear her smirk over the line. “Is that music? Where are you?”

“Downtown. Gala at the museum.” 

“Oh-hh! Is that what the tux was for? Is Cassandra there?” Her voice was dripping with relish.

He was not in the mood for it. “What kind of question is that?” 

“Hmm,” she said lightly. “Just wondering if you’re coming home tonight. You didn’t answer my question.”

And he wasn’t going to. “I’ll see you later, Thea. Thanks for the info.”

He hung up, and his phone lit almost immediately with a text.

_I’ll leave the chain off. Just in case. Don’t wake me up for your walk of shame._

He rolled his eyes and resumed his quest for that drink. He was back in line and had been waiting at the tail end of it for less than a minute when a Tevinter accent greeted him from behind. 

It was Pavus, wearing a sleek dinner jacket of crimson velvet. He was impeccably groomed, just like at the hospital. Gold glittered from his ears and fingers, and his shoes were made of polished leather sourced from some exotic animal, probably represented somewhere in this hall of bones. 

“I didn’t expect to see _you_ here,” said Pavus, smirking. “Or should I be addressing the back of your head?”

Owain had no idea what he was talking about. Pavus lifted a hand to his own head and tapped the back of it.

The mask. He’d forgotten all about it. Owain brushed it off and let it hang at his collar. “Getting into Southern politics?” he asked. 

Pavus laughed. “I must say, as an outside observer, your system is fascinating. Anyone with the right talents and connections could rise to power, yes? The Magisterium could use a bit more true democracy. Everyone’s so busy upholding the way things are, they never stop to check if it’s gone bad.”

“I thought Tevinter went to open elections years ago.”

“Only for the lower house. Most of the real power is still hereditary. The same old families that have been running things since the Dragon Age.”

Owain huffed and moved up to close the gap in the line. “Well, March City has its flaws, but good to know we’re better than that, at least.”

“In name, anyway. In practice?” Pavus waved at their surroundings. “We have events like this all the time. The scheming, the backstabbing, everything for show. It’s all the same. I almost feel at home. Only thing we’re missing is a good blood magic duel.”

“Don’t lose hope. The night is young.”

They had reached the head of the line and paused to give their orders to the bartender. A whiskey for Owain, a glass of the punch for Pavus. 

“Were you involved in politics back home?” said Owain, as he stuffed a bill in the tip jar and moved to a clear space on the other side of the halla.

Pavus followed, sipping at his drink. “Oh, it was expected, for a certain slice of society. Not that I minded, really. These things can be fun. But my father insisted that his heir have influence, if I was to inherit his seat as Magister. There’s a certain amount of… pressure that comes with that. Thankfully, I’ve since been relieved of that duty.”

“Join the club,” said Owain, watching the whiskey settle in his glass and thinking of his own family. “The last time I spoke to my father, I was thirteen, and they shipped me off to the Circle like dirty laundry. Never talked again after that. He’s dead now.”

“They disowned you for having magic?” Pavus raised a brow. His eyes were dark with sympathy that Owain found strangely comforting. “Hah. People do the opposite in Tevinter. No point in an heir with no magic. Or even weak magic, for that matter. You know, that was the case with Felix? Alexius loved him anyway. That was something that always set him apart to me.”

Love without conditions—what was that like? Owain blew out a sigh. There was no heat in the thought. All that anger had burned away a long time ago. Nothing left but charred out facts. 

He cast his eyes upward and spied Pentaghast in the upper gallery, still standing along the balcony where he’d left her. How she spotted him in the crowd, he didn’t know, but her eyes found his as if drawn by some unseen force. They held for what must have been seconds but felt like forever. 

He broke it off. At this rate, he was going to need another drink. 

Pavus hadn’t noticed. He was too busy watching with amusement at the small flock of fashionable ladies gathered at the nearby edge of the dance floor. They were paying court to a woman in a striking white and silver gown and coordinating mask who was succeeding at being both beautiful and intimidating at the same time. It was none other than Vivienne de Fer. 

She recognized him and gave the barest of nods before returning to her fans, who noticed him not at all. It did not escape Pavus, who was highly entertained by the whole thing. 

“You know Madame de Fer?” he said, with obvious glee. “Well you _are_ surprising, Trevelyan.”

Owain shrugged, polishing off the last of his whiskey and handing his empty glass to a passing waiter. “I wouldn’t say I know her. More of a work thing.”

“Hah. Close enough for this lot, yes? And here I was imagining you as some glorified beat cop.” Pavus crossed an arm over his chest and held his glass in the air, idly swirling his punch. “I’m not sure what all the fuss is about, frankly. Though she does have an excellent sense of fashion, I’ll give her that.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?”

“From me?” Pavus clutched at non-existent pearls. “Never! I respect the game, that’s all.”

“Ah,” said Owain, adjusting his jacket. “Then I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be seen with me.”

“Oh, don’t fish, please. You’re perfectly acceptable. A bit boring, perhaps, but you wear it well. I wish I could say the same for half the men in this place.” 

“Hey, I’ll take boring.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Owain’s next reply was cut short by the passing of a tall woman in a clinging black dress. Something struck him as familiar about the shape of her face and the shade of her dark blonde hair. Everything from the nose up was covered by a black and gold mask, which made it difficult to be sure. She disappeared into the crowd of dancers but seemed headed toward the front of the room. 

Reminded of his mission, he turned to Pavus to make his apologies. 

“Sure, sure,” said Pavus, rolling his eyes and waving away Owain’s excuses. “Clearly you have much more important things to do.”

“I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Owain gave him a final nod and set off to follow the woman in the black dress. But even after weaving his way to the other end of the dance floor, she was nowhere to be seen. What now? He could let it go and rejoin Pentaghast in the upper gallery. They could continue their watch over Celene. Or was there another way to clear his suspicions?

He chose the latter and went out into the lobby, where he met a weary-looking Detective Rutherford at the communications desk. Rutherford was still wearing his mask, from which he had tried to remove the feathers. It left a ragged border of broken shafts and wispy white down. Owain wasn’t sure this was an improvement. 

“You know you can take that off now?” he said, pointing at his own eyes.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” said Rutherford, tearing the mask from his face. “Bloody Orlesians.”

Owain bit back a laugh. “How’s your night been?”

“Quiet. Nothing much to report. Security plan appears to be working as intended, so far.”

“Same in there,” said Owain. He took out his phone and scrolled to Althea’s message from earlier that evening. “But speaking of security, if I send you a picture, can you run it through the ones from the screening tonight?”

Rutherford furrowed his brow. “Of course. What is it you think we’ll find?”

“Just confirming a hunch.” Owain leaned his hands on the table and studied the photo he had forwarded while Rutherford ran the search. Kira Blackburn—a definite resemblance to the woman in black. “I hope I’m wrong.”

He wasn’t. The search turned up exactly one match. It was her, black-gold mask and all. She had even had the audacity to use her real name.

“I don’t understand,” said Rutherford, checking their records. “Why are you looking for her? She cleared the vetting process with no issues. As far as we know, she’s clean.”

“You remember that mage from Adamant?” said Owain. “The one that killed your men and those Wardens? She’s like him. Whatever it is that gave him those powers, I’m willing to bet she’s got it, too.”

“But she’s not in the—”

“Registry, I _know._ The Circle scrubs the records of their top officers. Makes it easier for us to carry out our missions.”

Rutherford squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “So you’re saying a mage like that is here tonight? For what purpose? You don’t think this has to do with Celene?”

Owain shook his head. “I don’t know. But we need to find her. The sooner the better.”

“There’s no telling how long it will take to search every wing. Even if we use Rylen and his uniforms.”

“Do it. Just… try to be discreet. We don’t want to cause a panic, either.”

“A panic about what?” Seeker Pentaghast was standing in front of them. Neither of them had noticed her approach, and it was startling to have her suddenly appear. She crossed her arms and leveled a glare at Owain. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry,” he said, too preoccupied to really mean it. He explained the situation. The Seeker’s expression went from anger to frowning concern.

“Trevelyan is right,” she said, speaking to Rutherford now. “Search the galleries. It cannot be coincidence. We’ll take the geology wing.”

Owain shot her a question with his eyes. 

She explained. “While you were out here, Celene, Gaspard, and Florianne left the great hall. Celene first, and the others shortly after. They went in that direction. That’s why I came looking for you. They are still our first priority.”

Fuck. Why was everything happening at once? 

“Alright,” he said, with a deep breath. “Fine. The plan is still the plan. We’ll follow Celene and look for Blackburn along the way.”

They split up. Rutherford went to find Rylen, while Owain hurried after the Seeker, who had already turned into one of the passages leading off from the lobby.

The walls here were painted dark and the lights much dimmer than in the main hall. Spotlights illuminated exhibits on the geological history of Thedas, explaining the various phenomena that had shaped the landscape over the ages. Soft music piped in through hidden speakers, a faint echo of the live orchestra in the hall.

Guests had clearly discovered the benefits of this wing, taking advantage of the relative quiet for private conversations. And in some cases, quite a bit more than conversation. He and Pentaghast stumbled across a few couples in compromising positions. So much for learning about _earth_ science.

Pentaghast slowed as they entered the hall of minerals. She turned to him and jerked her head to the side, where he could hear voices arguing in an Orlesian drawl. 

A walk past confirmed it to be Gaspard and Florianne. Owain and Pentaghast lingered along the wall nearby, between a display case holding an impressive specimen of dawnstone and another with a slab of silverite.

“What did she promise you?” said Florianne in a venomous near-whisper.

“The Vice-Chair and full control of all the southern subsidiaries.” Gaspard was making an effort to keep his voice calm. “Effective immediately.”

Florianne scoffed. “That bitch. If I had known your price was so low, I would have bought you myself.”

Another set of voices, raucous and loud, entered the gallery. Without warning, Pentaghast grabbed Owain’s jacket and pulled him around, hiding both of their faces from view. It threw him off balance, and he was forced to catch himself on the wall by her head. His face was now inches from hers. Good for the ruse, he supposed. Just another couple making the most of the dark.

But was anything further from the truth? He held himself apart from her, as far as possible with her grip on his coat. Her eyes were on him, he knew. He tried to meet them, but it was too much. All it did was make his heart pound in his ears, and he needed them to focus on the conversation going on a few feet away. Averting his gaze did nothing to dull his sense of her anyway—her scent, the heat of her body so close to his. He had never wanted anything more than to put his hands on that silk and bury his face in her neck.

He didn’t do either of those things. 

“If you don’t have the stomach for it, just say so,” said Florianne. “I’ll go through with it even if you won’t.”

“No. I forbid it.”

“Forbid?” Her laugh was cold and clear. “Dear brother, if you ever had any right to that, you lost it the moment you decided to deal with her.”

“I said, no.” Gaspard was losing control of his volume. It was no longer a strain to hear. “What could possibly be gained now? You think no one will come looking if Celene falls and we benefit? Now that she has the Nightingale on her side and whatever this Inquisition is? You’re a fool if you think you’ll get away with it.”

“All that will change once Amladaris comes to power. The DA will get what’s coming to her.”

“I won’t win this way.”

“Then you won’t win at all. You and your fucking honor. It always did hold you back.”

The sound of footsteps seemed to mean she had taken her leave. Gaspard hissed after her. “Florianne!” Then a whispered string of curses and a loud thump of something hitting the wall. Probably his fist. Owain could feel the impact through the plaster. It was followed by the scuff of shoes as Gaspard took off after her. 

Owain sprang backward as soon as Pentaghast let him go. He scraped his fingers through his hair and breathed deeply, as if he’d been holding it in without thinking. She was at least as affected as he was. There was a slight flush to her cheeks, which she seemed aware of, pressing the back of a hand to her face. Her eyes skimmed over him before she looked away and smoothed her hands down her dress. 

“Well that was something,” he said. “Sounds like Gaspard made a deal with Celene. You think he’s been neutralized?”

“Perhaps,” said Pentaghast, still avoiding his eyes. “Florianne clearly disagrees. Even on her own, she may be a threat.”

“She did seem determined.”

“We need to find Celene.”

She led the way, moving swiftly but carefully, checking every dark corner. Owain trailed a step behind and did the same. 

They found Celene near the end of the gallery, just beyond a dazzling display of diamonds that had belonged to an empress or queen or something. She wasn’t alone. In the uneven light, Owain could just make out the pointed ears and a lock of brown hair. They were wrapped in what looked like a passionate embrace. 

Briala?

He and Pentaghast came to the same conclusion at the same time. Only, his first instinct was to wait and see, while hers was to charge on ahead. 

“Madame Valmont,” she called out, before he could even think to stop her. 

Celene froze and then slowly disentangled herself. She turned from Briala, anger flashing in her eyes. They were shockingly blue, sapphires in a gold mask. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice was full of cold fury. “Who are you?”

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. With the Inquisition.”

“The Hero of Orlais. I’ve heard of you.” She shifted her attention to Owain, raking him over with a critical eye. “And who’s this, your date?”

“I’m—” _A Circle officer,_ he almost said, before remembering it wasn’t strictly true. “Owain Trevelyan. With the DA’s office. And the Inquisition.” 

Celene snorted, throwing her head back and straightening her shoulders. Her blue ballgown swished with the movement. “Well then. To what do I owe this honor? You’ve interrupted a rather private conversation.”

“We’ve been assigned to your protection.”

“Do I look like I’m in danger?”

Pentaghast pressed on. Owain had to admire her nerve. “Your companion. Ms. Briala. She is not on the authorized guest list.” 

Briala narrowed her eyes at them but said nothing, her posture guarded and wound tight like a spring. She was dressed in a waitstaff uniform. Was that how she got in?

Another angry flash of blue. “You must be mistaken. She is a personal guest of mine.”

“That is impossible.”

“I insist,” said Celene, moving toward them now with Briala at her side. Owain stepped back reflexively, but Pentaghast stood her ground. 

“You’re relieved of your duty, Seeker,” Celene said, low and dangerous. Their eyes locked in a standoff. “I’m more than capable of protecting myself.”

Owain could see the muscle working in the Seeker’s jaw as she ground her teeth together, the corner of her lip curling back. How bad would it be if she punched out their host right now? He wasn’t at all sure how this would end. The tension seemed to stretch for an eternity. 

Until finally she stepped aside. 

Celene smiled at her triumph. “I’ll be sure to tell Leliana how dedicated her Inquisition members are,” she said as she breezed past toward the lobby. “Good evening.”

They stood bolted to the floor as Celene and Briala’s footsteps faded down the hall. Had they just failed their mission? Or succeeded, given that Briala and Celene seemed to be on far from murderous terms? Either way, they had blown their cover, and the woman they were supposed to protect had spurned their help.

“Could have gone better,” he said. “Starting to think Rutherford has a point about Orlesians.”

Pentaghast didn’t seem to hear him. “Why did you not tell me about your badge?”

He turned to face her. “ _That’s_ what you want to talk about right now?” He stared in disbelief. “What’s the difference? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You almost said you were Circle. What if you slip? Or someone sees you? They will know you’re defying orders. That you are still with the Inquisition.”

“Sorry. It doesn’t roll off the tongue yet. And the Circle’s on the wrong side of this. They’ll see it eventually.” 

“You could lose your job.” She made it sound like an accusation. Her hazel eyes burned into him. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was exactly the conversation he didn’t want to have. “I’m willing to take that risk,” he said, biting off every word. “Why does it matter to you, anyway?”

She flinched, blinking rapidly and turning her face away with a huff. She opened her mouth and then closed it, as if she meant to say something but changed her mind. 

“Why _are_ you here?” she asked instead. 

“Why are _you?_ ” He threw it back at her. To question his motives now, on a technicality... He could feel his temper rising and let it run. “You think I don’t care what happens to this city? You think mages don’t have a stake? Or should we go back to the days when you locked us in our towers? It’s cleaner, isn’t it? Just let us out when you want something.”

“Is that the only reason?” She said it quietly, and it took all the fire out of him. 

“What?” 

“I said, is that the only reason?”

He’d heard her the first time.

An acid _yes_ sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to fly. But he wouldn’t lie to her. Did she really want him to say it out loud? So she could shut him down one final time? Even if it was true, he wasn’t ready to hear it. 

“What do you think?” he said. Then he clamped his mouth shut and turned on his heels. He didn’t hear her follow, which was probably just as well. 

He had almost reached the lobby when the crack of a gunshot split the air. 

And then he was running. They both were.


	4. Chapter 4

The lobby was a mess. 

The sound had come from somewhere else, but that didn’t stop people from spilling out of the galleries and milling around in curiosity and confusion, a few notches shy of full panic.

Owain scanned the crowd and found Celene and Briala near the center of the lobby. Gaspard and Florianne were among the guests gathered at the front of the great hall, where a handful of uniformed officers were trying to keep them contained. 

None of their VIPs appeared to have been shot or to have done the shooting. Then who?

Seeker Pentaghast caught up to him. He could sense her at his side, a flash of red in the corner of his eye. At the moment, he had nothing to say to her. 

Detective Rutherford burst through the crowd in the great hall, spotted them, and came jogging over. 

“What happened?” asked Owain, when he was still a few yards away.

Rutherford propped his hands on his hips and caught his breath. “It’s not clear,” he said, shaking his head. “It didn’t happen in there. That’s all I know for sure.”

“Or geology,” said Owain. “And all our Orlesians are accounted for.”

“What about Leliana?” asked Pentaghast. Something in her voice made him snap his head to look at her. “And Josephine? Where are they?”

Rutherford frowned and shook his head again. 

Another shot rang out, and it blew away all their questions. 

If the guests hadn’t been sure about what happened the first time, they were now. Several women screamed. The sound echoed terribly off the hard stone walls. Guests surged toward the exit, breaking through the line of officers holding back the tide in the great hall. 

The shot had come from the opposite wing. Owain followed Pentaghast and Rutherford as they fought their way across the lobby. It was like swimming against the current. 

Someone grabbed at his arm, and without thinking, he wrenched it away. He only turned to look when they shouted his name. It was Pavus. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. Fear and worry were etched in the line between his brows. “Has there been a shooting?”

Owain opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. Between his own ignorance and the instinct to keep calm, he wasn’t even sure what to say. Guests flowed around them where they stood. They were like rocks in a river.

A loud boom rattled the building. It sounded like magic, and it came from the direction he was headed, shaking him out of his stupor. “I need to go,” he yelled over his shoulder, before diving back into the crowd.

He raced through the galleries, dodging guests running the opposite way. This was the Oceans Wing, and like its mirror image, it, too, was dimly lit and filled with exhibits. Everything blurred together as he sped past. The wing opened up into a large, three-story atrium. A scale model of a sea creature hung from the ceiling, dominating the space. The walls to the left and right were lined with aquariums, along with a large cylindrical tank in the very center, and a shifting effect of the lights gave the impression of being underwater. 

The air here smelled burnt. Like smoke, but not the clean kind he was used to. It was sour and sulphurous and made him think of the Fade. The room shivered with unstable energy—wild, unbridled magic that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He slowed as he made his way in, guard up and a barrier ready. 

He found Pentaghast and Rutherford not far from the entrance, supporting an injured Rylen. Rylen leaned heavily on one foot, barely letting the other touch the floor and wincing when it did. 

Rylen jerked his head forward. “That way,” he said, a bit out of breath. “Leliana— We— We need to stop it.” 

Owain had a feeling he knew what _it_ was. 

He and Pentaghast took the lead as they hurried onward. Rutherford and Rylen followed as quickly as they could. They passed a few uniformed officers along the way, hurt but alive, collapsed on the floor. It only made them move faster. 

As they neared the center of the room, he spotted her. It was Blackburn, the woman in the black dress, the Redcliffe mage. But if he hadn’t known, he might not have recognized her. She stood tall, stick-straight, arms out at her sides. The mask was gone, and her eyes glowed a bright lyrium red. Blood dripped from a gash near her left wrist, staining the otherwise pristine floor. Fuel for her magic, no doubt. 

The product of that magic could be found just beyond: a massive demon, ten feet tall at least, crowned with a rack of sharp, twisting horns and bristling with menace. It moved at her command, reaching its claws as she flexed her hands, tossing its head as she shook hers. 

He had seen mages make all manner of pacts with demons over the years, but he had never seen anything like this. Possession, certainly, but who was controlling whom? This bond was super-charged with red lyrium, sealed in blood, and not just spirit but a corporeal monster puppeteered by one of the Circle's most talented officers. He thought back to Adamant. Renning’s face was seared in his memory, along with the scorched walls and the bodies on the floor. This wasn't going to be easy. 

The demon let out a chilling roar. It was then that he noticed Leliana around the side of the central aquarium. She was barefoot, and her dress was torn and her hands bloody. In them she clutched a pistol, and it was aimed at the demon. Josephine sat slumped on the floor directly behind her, hands pressed to a wound in her side that was rapidly staining the yellow of her dress.

The truth hit like a kick in the face. Blackburn was here on a mission, and it had nothing to do with Celene. How could they have been so blind?

And where had Leliana gotten a _gun?_

There was no time. Owain was moving and casting before he fully knew it. He was still a step behind Pentaghast, who had already taken off sprinting toward Leliana. He finished with the barrier and tossed it at the Seeker, feeling his heart lift as it wrapped her in protection. Then he stopped and readied an offensive spell. 

The demon loomed over Leliana, snarling and reaching out with its claws. She let loose a shot. One. Two. 

She could have emptied the gun, and it wouldn’t have mattered. 

The rounds were absorbed by a barrier, even as the demon’s claw came slashing down, slapping the weapon from her hands. Leliana cried out in pain as it raked along her side. 

The Seeker arrived just as the demon pulled back to strike again. She put herself in front of it like a shield, and Owain held his breath as she took the attack full on. It shattered her barrier, but she was unharmed. The demon recoiled, howling with rage. 

Owain launched a series of fireballs in the opening. He aimed not at the demon but at Blackburn, hoping to put her on the defensive and take the heat off the others. His spells broke apart against her shimmering red barrier, but it achieved the objective, as she turned and set her glowing eyes on him. 

The demon lumbered toward him with appalling speed as he threw up a quick barrier and racked his brain for a plan. There was little cover to speak of here, just the aquarium and a scattering of benches and displays. Nothing he could rely on. What could one mage hope to do against this? The goal, he concluded, was to buy enough time for Leliana and Josephine to get away. And Pentaghast, if she’d allow it. As for his own safety? Well, that was very much in the air. 

With the demon yards away, he readied flames in his hands. Before he could engage, Rutherford and Rylen appeared. They ran in with silencers drawn, charged with spell-purging voltage, bypassing the demon and heading straight for Blackburn. Owain dodged, pulling back his magic to avoid catching them in the crossfire. 

He swore under his breath. They had to know it wasn’t going to work. If it didn't work at Adamant, why would it now? 

_Fucking Templars._

He switched tactics, throwing barriers over the officers instead. Then he cast more fireballs at the demon, to keep it busy and away from his allies. 

It worked, for a moment. Then Rutherford and Rylen fired. Their aim was good, but Owain groaned as he watched the leads glance harmlessly off the mage’s barrier. She clapped her hands together, and her puppet did the same, drawing its claws apart and conjuring a chain of lightning that lashed toward the men, who scrambled to get out of its path. 

Owain rushed in to help. He laid down mines in front of the officers and prepared a stonefist. As the demon drew near, he grunted and let it fly, forcing the creature back. 

“Stay the fuck out of my way!” he shouted over his shoulder at Rutherford and Rylen, who were recharging their weapons to try again. “Leave it! It’s not going to work.” He refreshed their barriers and jerked his head toward Pentaghast on the other side of the room. She was helping Leliana and Josephine toward shelter in a side gallery. “Help them! That’s the best thing you can do right now.”

He didn’t stop to check if they did. The demon recovered and advanced again, tripping his mines in the process. They burst into flames but did almost nothing, flickering ineffectually around its shields. Before he could react, he was trapped, with lightning on one side and a fistful of talons on the other. He had no choice but to take it on the nose. The combined attacks struck his barrier and brought it down. As the demon reeled with the impact, Owain launched another stonefist, barely buying room to escape. He fadestepped away, far enough to take a breath, but close enough to stay a threat. 

In a way, his problem was simple. He just wasn’t doing enough damage. Each attack weakened the barrier, but in the time it took to reposition or cast another spell, Blackburn refreshed it. She was the real target here; he shouldn’t be wasting time on the demon. But it was fast and capable of so much damage… He couldn’t afford to let it focus on his friends. 

What he needed was point damage, a high amount all at once, enough to break the shields and land a real hit. The catch was that all of his more powerful spells also took longer to cast. And, he realized, he had to do more than buy time. The museum was filled with hundreds of civilians, even if many had fled by now. He had to stop this demon after all.

No time. There was never any time. Blackburn cast fireballs in his direction. He dodged the first and the second, countered the third with his own, and was readying another when the demon came barrelling from his left, razor claws eager to tear. Owain braced himself for impact, but it never came. Instead, the blow bounced away, leaving nothing worse than ripples in the barrier that kept him from harm. 

Impossible. His last shield had fallen, and he had not refreshed it. What’s more, the quality of this magic felt different. It was not his. 

He whirled around, searching for the source. Behind him, near the entrance to the atrium, stood Pavus, already intoning another spell. Owain sprinted toward him. 

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “You need to get out.”

“Odd way of saying ‘thank you,’” said Pavus with a smirk, as he cloaked himself in a barrier, too. Owain shot him a glare, which he waved away. “But if you must know, I sensed the magic just as you did and came to see what it was all about.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“More dangerous than waiting for that thing to get loose?”

“It won’t,” said Owain through gritted teeth.

“Oh? Because you have it so well in hand?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” said Pavus, gaze steady and without a trace of humor now. “Let me help, Trevelyan. I’ve been watching. I don’t care how good you are, you’re not taking it down on your own.”

The demon roared and started toward them, a harsh reminder that Pavus was right. “Fine,” said Owain. “But if things get heated, I want you to get out. The last thing the Inquisition needs is civilian deaths on its hands.”

“Deaths?” Pavus cleared his throat and a bit of color drained from his face. “Right. Yes. You have my word.”

They split up, flanking the enemy on either side. Owain summoned a blaze to slow its advance, while Pavus conjured lightning to challenge the demon's. The creature cracked its whip overhead, but Pavus’s spell arced up and caught it, racing along the current and taking control. He flicked his wrist, and magic shot like a bolt through the demon, its body going rigid as the barrier fell. Lightning coiled round in a brilliant blue cage.

“Can you hold it?” asked Owain. 

“For the time being,” Pavus said, with little attention to spare for words. That was good enough for Owain, who ducked behind a display to cast one of his bigger spells. 

His firestorm rained down on Blackburn, interrupting her efforts to wrangle the demon and fight off the static cage. Flaming stone pummeled her barrier, bringing it down, and despite being winded by the casting, Owain did not waste this chance. He fadestepped to her blindspot, planting a mine at her feet and swinging hard with his fist. But she was ready for him, raising her arm to block his hit and dancing around his trap. She spun away, flinging sharp blades of ice in her wake. They whistled past his head as he dodged, but he kept up the offensive, calling fire from the air as they traded physical blows. He could not let her refresh her shield. But she was strong and fast, even more so than expected, and with seemingly endless stamina. Was this the effect of red lyrium? 

A shout went up behind him and turned his head. The demon had broken free and knocked Pavus to the floor. Owain left his own fight and rushed to his aid. Conjuring stone from the Fade, he hurled it point blank, connecting with a sickening crunch. He helped Pavus up, and together they beat back the demon with lightning and flame. 

Good progress, while it lasted. When their spells ricocheted, his heart sank with his hopes. The barrier was back, glowing an even deeper shade of red. 

Blackburn was kneeling on the floor, laughing in an off key that made his skin crawl. She flung her hand aside, and something small and shiny flew from her grasp. It shattered with the sparkling sound of broken glass. Clutching her arm, she flowed to her feet, burning with newfound power. Her eyes blazed red, and her already pale skin had gone nearly translucent, blood vessels raised in stark, crimson contrast. Another dose of Red, pushing her into overdrive. That foul Fade smell, that volatile, wild energy—everything dialed up. 

Now this was real fear. 

Owain’s mana was low, he was exhausted, and their options had dwindled to nothing. He looked at Pavus, and in his face was matching despair. 

There was no choice but to fight on. The demon was more powerful than ever and gave them no rest. They ducked and deflected and countered where they could, but it was too strong, and it drove them toward the wall, no room to escape. 

The next attack might have been the last, if not for the thick shield of ice that sprouted without warning from the floor at their feet. Before he could begin to wonder where it came from, Madame de Fer appeared between them, cool and composed, bringing with her a wave of relief. She was radiant as ever in her flowing white gown, and her lips moved with a silent incantation. When it was done, she raised her hand, and spires of ice shot up to encase the demon in an unshakeable frozen prison. Even its barrier couldn’t save it from that.

Blackburn screamed with fury. With her puppet immobilized, the mages turned their attention to her. 

Vivienne took a deep breath and began another complex spell. She nodded at the two of them. “Gentlemen. Cover, if you please.”

They obliged, of course. Blackburn attacked as they advanced, but Pavus and Owain met her volleys one for one, buying time for Vivienne to work. Her spell was spirit-based, a trap of telekinetic energy that she dropped on Blackburn with devastating precision. It locked her in place, crushing her barrier and draining her overextended mana. The Red made her powerful, but it left her open to attacks like this. Leaving nothing to chance, Pavus added his cage of lightning, while Owain gathered what remained of his magic and cast a damaging field of flame.

But even sapped of her mana and weakened like this, Blackburn was not finished yet. As they closed with her, she swapped to physical combat, at which she was still astonishingly, painfully good. Owain took the brunt of it head-on, while the others tried to help from a distance. 

They might have been evenly matched the first time, but he was at the end of himself now, and she was still fast and still strong. She was a difficult target, weaving in for a hit, then bobbing away, evading spells and fists alike. His limbs felt heavy and slow. His attacks met nothing but air. She saw all his mistakes and turned them against him. He had to block and duck, playing nonstop defense. He wasn’t going to win this duel, and he knew it. 

A well-timed knee in his gut was followed by an elbow to the chest and a punch that made him see stars. The force of it sent him sprawling, skidding across the floor. He willed himself to get up, pushing through the pain, and he’d gotten halfway when something fast and red launched itself at Blackburn, knocking her over. It was Pentaghast, and he had never been more glad to see her. 

With Blackburn pinned beneath her, the Seeker rained blows on her head. The mage fought back, clawing and scratching at anything she could reach. Pentaghast rolled aside to avoid it, but Blackburn pounced on her with a feral shriek, wrapping her hands around her throat. The Seeker pried her fingers off, twisting and kicking herself free.

Back on their feet, fists and kicks and blocks and parries flew furiously between them. Pentaghast shoved the mage off balance, knocking away her punch and landing a solid hit to her jaw. But Blackburn recovered, squaring her stance and dodging the follow-up to come back with an attack of her own. A protective barrier shimmered around the Seeker—from Pavus or Vivienne, must be—and it absorbed the worst of the blows. Even so, Owain winced as the mage scored a hard, spinning kick on her side. 

Pentaghast grunted with pain but seemed to channel it all into anger. Eyes flashing, she snarled, lowering her head and charging at Blackburn. She seized her around the middle and slammed her against the aquarium glass, scattering the fish inside. With a loud cry, the Seeker’s fist found its mark, and the mage crumpled to the floor. This time, she did not rise.

Owain held his breath and dared to hope. Behind them, Vivienne’s fortress of ice cracked apart as the demon dissolved into ether. More than anything else, that was how he knew it was over. 

In the aftermath, Pentaghast swayed on her feet, breathing hard and cradling her hip. A bead of blood trickled from a cut at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue flicked out to taste it before she wiped it with the back of her hand. 

_Fuck._

He was staring. Her eyes caught his, and she let them linger. The look she gave him could have set him on fire. He swallowed hard and turned away. 

“Well done, Enchanter.” Vivienne had joined him, with Pavus not far behind. How the two of them still managed to look like they had stepped out of a ballroom and not a battle, he had no idea.

He shook his head. “If you hadn’t arrived, that would have ended a lot differently. But why? How did you know?”

Vivienne smiled. “It was obvious, my dear. Any mage worth harrowing would have sensed that abomination. And I said the Inquisition was our best hope, did I not? I could hardly allow it to be wiped out when it was in my power to prevent it.”

“Trevelyan.” Rylen called out as he limped toward them. “We need your help. It’s Josie. I’ve called the medics, but it can’t wait. She needs a healer. Now.”

“Shit.” Owain pressed the tips of his fingers to his eyelids. Even if he had the skill, he didn’t have the mana. 

Pavus raised his hand. “I might be able to help,” he offered, coming to the rescue for the second time that evening. 

“As can I,” Vivienne added. “Did you say Josephine? Take me to her.”

Wary of strange mages, Rylen looked at Owain. He nodded quickly, and Rylen asked no further questions, leading them back across the room. 

Maker, he was tired. The adrenaline had gone and left him empty, and he could feel every new ache and bruise. He stood along the wall, watching as the others handled the scene. Rutherford was on his radio, calling more officers to help. He and Pentaghast had taken care of Blackburn, who was unconscious but still breathing. Even if she woke, Templar restraints would keep her in check. 

He should help. And he would, in a minute. Except his knees gave way, and he slid down until he landed on the floor, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and counting heartbeats in his chest. Just a minute. 

Things were winding down by the time he pulled himself to his feet. The officers had searched the room for evidence, and the paramedics had taken Leliana and Josephine for treatment, though they were out of immediate danger. Blackburn, too. Rutherford and Rylen had gone out to direct activity in the lobby, and Vivienne and Pavus had gone with them to give their statements for the record. 

That left him and Pentaghast alone in the empty atrium. But as far as he was concerned, their job was done, and the night was over. He was spent. 

It seemed absurd, but music played on through the speakers. Fish circled in their tanks, light catching their scales as they swam endlessly on the other side of the glass. A school of jellyfish bobbed in the display to his right, like ghosts in their inky habitat, oblivious to all the human drama outside. 

After sweeping the room a final time, Pentaghast stood beside him, still and quiet. She stared into the distance, her face lined with shadows under the patterned blue lights. Her shoulders rose and fell with the weight of a deep, shaky breath. She smoothed her hands down her dress, balled them into fists, and wrapped her arms around herself. He had no idea what to say, nor the energy to change that. 

She spoke first, addressing him directly for the first time since geology. “Did you still want to dance?” she asked. It was almost a whisper, so soft. And the last thing he expected.

He blinked numbly. “I thought you didn’t—”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. “Ask again.”

If her words weren’t enough, it was all there in her look. She wanted something. But what? Connection? Warmth, comfort? 

It might have been him, or it might have been the moment. It didn’t really matter. He would always say yes. 

He offered his hand, and she took it. Her fingers were cool to the touch. She twitched her lips in the briefest smile and put her hand on his shoulder, then he pulled her in at the waist. 

The silk was every bit as smooth as he’d imagined. And warm where it touched her body.

They started moving to the music. It drifted down low and silvery from somewhere in the ceiling. They were stiff at first, fighting the closeness, testing their roles. And then it was easy. They found their rhythm, falling into step like they did when discussing a case or backing each other in a fight. This was nothing like that, but it felt familiar all the same. 

The song changed, and she leaned back to look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said. “I should not have questioned your motives.”

 _Oh, that._ He blinked away and sighed. His own words had been less than kind. “It’s ok. I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

“Thank you. For being here. I do not know what would have happened if you weren’t.” 

“You’re the one who finished the job.”

“Only because you made it possible. I mean it. Thank you.”

She was watching him intently, so he turned and held her gaze for as long as he could stand it. 

“Of course,” he said with a nod.

She let out a long, weary sigh and relaxed against him, and they were silent for a while. As the music played on, she lowered her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder. He could feel the flutter of her breath on his skin. 

Too tired to pretend anymore, he shut his eyes and pressed her close and leaned his head on hers. So much had happened tonight, most of it far from good, but for now he shut all of it away. Here in this moment, with her, he let himself believe that everything was right with the world. 

\---

They split a cab for the ride home. Cassandra spent the whole time thinking about Trevelyan and the feel of his arms around her, though he sat only on the other end of the backseat. Something had eased between them during that dance, and she could not shake her need to know where it might lead. Exhausted as she was, she no longer wanted the night to end so quickly. At least, not alone in her empty apartment. She convinced herself that perhaps he felt the same. 

They stopped outside her building first. Trevelyan got out and held the door for her. Wholly unnecessary. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked.

She nodded without thinking, then realized if she wanted anything to happen, she had to say something, and she had to do it now. So she forced the words out, at gunpoint. “Actually. Do you... want to stay? I mean, do you want to come in?”

He was halfway into the car but paused, stepping back into the street and resting his hands on the door as he considered her offer. He kicked at the curb and frowned, looking down at his shoes. “Okay,” he said, when her hope had nearly faded. “Just give me a second.”

She waited on the sidewalk as he paid the driver, hugging her jacket close against the cool night air. The door slammed, and the car rolled away. Trevelyan came up beside her, his eyes unreadable in the orange light of the street. She gave him a smile, which he did not exactly return, and led the way up to her building. 

Though it was only the two of them, the elevator felt crowded, the air thick with memory. He leaned against the back wall and stared at the floor, looking at her only once. It was fleeting, gone in the space between one floor and the next. But it was enough for her to know that he was thinking about the very same thing. 

They reached her apartment, and she let them in. She hung her jacket on the wall while he stood there with his hands in his pockets. 

“Well, you know your way around,” she said, leading him to the living room. She scrubbed her hands down her sides, searching for something to do or say next. Anything to cut the tension. “Would you like some wine? I have an open bottle. It’s Antivan. Red. Nothing special, but not bad.”

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Sure.”

When she came back with the wine, he was standing by the windows. It was dark. He hadn’t bothered with the lights. His fingers were at his collar, where he had pulled his tie free and popped the first button of his shirt. This small piece of him undone made her pulse beat half a step quicker. Then she remembered that this had all been her idea. 

He took the glass she offered with a quick smile. Their fingers brushed in passing. He turned back to the windows and sighed, and they sipped at their wine for a while. 

“You have a nice view,” he said, breaking the silence. “I meant to tell you that, last time.”

Her eyes scanned the landscape picked out in lights. Empty offices blazed white in nearby towers, while apartments glowed yellow or cool television blue. Stop lights turned green for no one, and a lone car streaked along the elevated freeway like a comet in the dark. It was late, and the streets were empty at this hour. 

She supposed he was right about the view, though she had stopped seeing it a long time ago.

“There’s the bridge.” He nodded far to their right, and she followed him down to the string of lights stretched across the black river separating Ostwick and Starkhaven. “Me and my brother used to ride our bikes across it when we were kids. There’s a little park on the Starkhaven side. It’s nice.”

She didn’t know how to answer that, but she looked up to find him watching her. He turned away again, lifting his glass to his lips. “That was before the magic, anyway,” he added. “Can’t see the Circle from here.”

In profile, the low light cast soft shadows over the angles of his face. The white of his shirt seemed bright against his black suit. Clean, smooth lines—he seemed to be made of them.

_Her idea._

“Do you ever think about the last time?” she said, chasing the words with a big gulp of wine. It was round and sweet on her tongue. She could feel his eyes on her again, and her cheeks went hot. She had not had nearly enough wine for that to be the cause. 

He tipped back the rest of his drink and came to set the empty glass on the table at their backs. Even when he’d put it down, he did not move away.

“Do you?” he asked, from just over her shoulder. She was obliged to look at him, and that was the beginning of the end. 

He took her glass from her, and she let him. Leaning against the edge of the table, she squared her body with his, letting her eyes float from his face down to the rest of him, walking her fingers down the silk on his lapel. She played with the end of his tie and smoothed her hands over the crisp cotton of his shirt. “I think about it all the time,” she whispered, darting her eyes back to his. And it was true. 

She could feel his heat this close, and his look was all smoke, but he didn’t move. No, he was waiting. Waiting for her. 

Fine. Her idea, after all. She rocked close and tilted up at him and paused, and when he did nothing to stop her, she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. 

It took him a moment to surface. When he did, the softness in his eyes took her by surprise. It was not the hard-edged desire she’d expected to see, but it made her heart race just the same. 

She wanted him to kiss her, to break on her like a wave, but he did not. He just stood there and looked at her and held back, quirking the corner of his mouth when he knew it had been too long. His patience was maddening, but she was not angry enough to stop, only angry enough to curl her fingers in that crisp white shirt and drag his face down to meet hers, to coax his mouth open with her tongue and catch his lip with her teeth. He tasted like Antivan wine. 

A low groan rumbled in his chest, then she got what she wanted. 

He took over the kiss. His hands were in her hair, thumbs stroking the line of her jaw, fingers at the back of her neck, where she was sure every strand stood on end. She paid him back in kind. All the desires she’d tried to forget, the idle thoughts she’d entertained since the last time—she set them loose now. 

But he was better than she remembered. 

Shoving her hands under his jacket, she ran them boldly up his back, finding his strength coiled in the muscles there. She wanted to wrap herself in him, in his warmth, his scent, his presence, so solid and heavy and real. As if she’d said it outloud, he put his arms around her and pulled her close by the hips, close enough to slide his hands down the curve of her backside. He smiled, and she could feel it curl against her lips. 

She pushed him toward the window, and the back of his head hit the glass, ringing. Worried he was hurt, she pulled back, but he just leaned against the sill and reeled her in with him. If he was going down, so was she. Bodies flush now, she could feel him growing hard against her hip. Heat gathered between her legs, as if she needed more reasons to want him. 

He brushed his nose against hers, eyes so close she could fall into them. “Cassandra,” he whispered, in a rough octave that seemed designed to make her weak in the knees. “Do you know how stunning you are? What you make me want to do?”

He shifted his weight to part her legs with one of his, and... _oh._ She couldn’t help making room for him, rocking against his thigh. It made him smirk again. 

She kissed him hard, to wipe it away and retaliate for the tease. She stroked the outline of his cock through his trousers, drawing a hiss that told the truth of his composure. 

But there was no time to bask in her victory. He growled and pulled her close again, hands moving higher to cup her breasts, thumbs dragging across her nipples through the silk. His mouth left hers to trail wet kisses over her jaw and her neck, down to the sensitive spot in the curve of her collar. His lips found a scratch from her fight with the mage, and he took his time there, soothing the hurt with his tongue. 

All the while, she ground her hips against him, wanting more and still more. It was just this side of not enough. 

“Owain.” 

He looked up when she breathed his name. His eyes were half-closed, lost in the moment. Unraveling, just like her. 

They stumbled to her bedroom, where he sat her down on the foot of the bed. Her dress was already slipping from her shoulders, so she reached back to help it all the way off. 

“No, wait,” he said, putting out a hand to stop her. “Keep it on. Please. It’s not every day I get to go home with the belle of the ball.”

There was that soft smile again. Since when did it have so much power? She settled back on her elbows, waiting as he pulled off his jacket and hung it on the doorknob, where it was soon followed by his tie. 

Watching her watch him, he stood over her and unlinked his cuffs and slowly, deliberately rolled them up his arms. It was more attractive than it should have been. And she could have sworn he was stalling.

“You are doing it on purpose,” she said.

“Am I? Doing what, exactly?”

“Making me wait.” She hooked a leg around his knees and tried to pull him down, but he planted his feet to defy her. 

He smirked and finished with his sleeve. “Does it bother you?” Then he dropped to his knees, and they were eye-to-eye, his hands digging into the sheets at her hips. He kissed her, long and slow, and whispered the rest against her lips. “Can I make it up to you?”

She let out her breath, and it sounded dangerously close to a whine.

He started near her ankles. His hands found the hem of her dress and slipped underneath. Skimming up her legs, he hooked his thumbs in the band of her underwear, tugging it all the way down and off. It was wet, and they both knew it.

Pushing her skirt up, he settled himself between her legs and lifted one over his shoulder. He locked his eyes to hers and pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, just above the knee. Only then did she see his intent.

It seemed too much. And yet…

He kissed her again, lower this time, longer and wetter, working his way down. After each one, he paused and waited for her. Waited for her to give her assent. What was almost imperceptible at first became a nod, and then yes, and then _please._ She was the one who was breaking. 

Her breath was ragged when he finally touched her, dragging a finger through her folds, spreading her, finding her clit and teasing, testing for the pressure that would make her moan and fall back on the bed, just so. Even as she lay there panting, he wrapped his hands around her thighs and pulled her hips forward, putting his mouth where his fingers had been.

She was so sensitive now. Every nerve was on edge. Her hips jerked, but he held her still, as if he would not be turned from his task. 

And he was very good at his task. 

There was suddenly not enough air in the room. She gasped at every slow stroke of his tongue, every flick and push, and the pull of his lips, building her up, higher and higher. Without losing focus, he freed a hand and felt his way up her belly, fingers brushing at the sides of her breast and circling her nipple, so slow, driving her to the brink. She stopped keeping score and arched up from the mattress, bucking against him, scratching her fingers through his hair. He groaned at that, and she could feel the sound of it run shivering through her.

It wasn’t long before he had her crying out, closing her legs around his head. The edges of her vision went dim, and warmth flooded through her. She pulled herself fully onto the bed and lay there, liquid as a puddle. 

He climbed up and stretched himself over her, rolling his shoulders and twisting his neck from side to side. Leaning on his elbows, he smirked and watched her come down from the high he had given her. 

She rolled her eyes and pressed her hands to his chest. She could feel his cock against her leg, hard as ever. And still in his pants.

“ _Why_ are you still wearing clothes?” 

He popped his jaw and ran his tongue across his teeth. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “A little busy.”

She snorted and grabbed hold of his shirt, yanking it free from his trousers and intending to work out the shiny black studs that were keeping it closed. She must have pulled a little too hard because one of them disappeared, pinging off into the dark. 

They froze and listened to the sound of it hitting the floor and rolling away to Maker-knows-where. She bit her lip and slid her eyes back to his. One look at his face, and she burst into laughter, and so did he. He leaned down, shoulders shaking, and planted his face in her pillow. 

It was all so ridiculous. Everything. The whole evening—the gala, the politics, the mage and her demon. Even him, here in her bed, laughing and making love (is that what this was?). Maybe it was the only sane response. Finding release, one way or another. 

She laughed until it hurt. Then they calmed, and he shifted his weight to brush his thumb at the corners of her eyes, wiping away the tears that had collected there. His touch was gentle. Reverent, even. His eyes had gone soft again, vulnerable and clear. It was a look she recognized from last time, one she thought she would never see again. 

It was still terrifying. She looked away, back down at his shirt. The fabric was still clutched in her hands. 

“I’m never going to find that, am I?” he said. 

“No.” She shook her head and pulled, sending more studs flying. “Lost forever.”

“Worth it,” he whispered, before leaning down for a kiss. 

This was all taking far too long. She undid the rest of his shirt, then his pants, pushing them down with his underwear, kicking them off with her feet. Then she wrapped her legs around him and rolled, leaving her straddling his hips on top. He sat up and shrugged out of his dress shirt, then peeled off the tee underneath. Naked, at last. 

Raking her hands down his chest, she pressed him into the mattress. She had forgotten about his scars. The faded red web of them spread across his torso, alongside purpling marks from the battle that evening. She traced them gently with her fingers. He stilled himself and watched her, as if it was taking all his will just to hold himself together. 

She had other plans. Wrapping her hand around his cock, she stroked him slowly, up and down. He gasped and tightened his grip on her thigh. 

“Cass...” 

She knew what he wanted because she wanted the same thing. Lifting her skirt out of the way, she rose and pressed his tip to her entrance. She lowered herself slowly, deliberately, until she had taken him completely. He groaned, and she paused, savoring the feel of him inside her. 

He moved first, grabbing at her dress and pulling her down to him for a wet, desperate kiss. His arms circled her, fingers finding the zipper at her back and working it open to the base of her spine, hands exploring newly bared skin. She sat up, and the dress fell from her shoulders. Red silk pooled around her waist. 

Free of that, she started riding, rising and falling, chasing her own end. He brought his hands up to play at her breasts, rolling their tips with his fingers, leaning in to take them in his mouth. A surge of pleasure raced through her with every touch. Then he slapped at her ass, just once, and she almost stopped in shock. It made her angry, it made her hot, it made her slam down on his cock. It all fueled the fire burning her from the inside out. 

Everything was condensed, the whole world reduced to this room, this bed, this feeling. He slid his hand slowly up the length of her body, trailing heat between her breasts, over her collar, and around her neck, gently. His thumb grazed her jaw and brushed over her open lips. She kissed it, then curled her tongue around its tip and bit down, drawing from him another groan that satisfied something deep and unnamable in her heart. 

His chest was heaving now, his breath loud against her shoulder. His words had stopped making sense a long time ago: her name, curses and praise, fragments of what he wanted and could no longer do…

 _Yes,_ she answered to all of that, just as her own release fell crashing over her. He came a moment later, holding her tight. They rode the calming waves that followed, together. 

They dropped back against the sheets, and she lay quiet in his arms. Breathing felt like a revelation: in, out. His hands skimmed idly down her back. Then they were gone, his fingers moving to brush the hair out of her eyes. There was that look again. Too much. 

She turned away and pushed off of him, swinging her feet to the floor and stepping out of her dress. It would go straight to the cleaners. 

Navigating by memory and the glow from the windows, she went down the hall to use the bathroom and clean up. Her legs were unsteady, but the tile was cold under her feet, and it pulled her back to reality. She stood and swiped makeup from her eyes and turned it all over in her mind. 

Perhaps what he saw tonight, and what appealed to him, was an illusion. It was a cruel thought, but not impossible. He had mentioned the dress more than once, which was far from what she normally wore. Beyond rare. Even this, the kohl and the shadow she wore daily like armor, it wasn’t really her. She splashed water over her face and dried it with a towel, studying her bare reflection in the mirror. Would he want this version, too? 

There were no answers to be found here, so she finished and went back to the bedroom. He hadn’t moved. He was still exactly where she’d left him. She paused beside the bed, and he turned. His eyes drank her in, head to toe, and his mouth curved again into that same ridiculous smile. He moved over and tucked himself under the covers.

“Come here,” he said, with an exaggerated crook of his finger. “I saved room for you.”

Her laugh was equal parts joy and relief as she climbed in next to him. Their legs curled together between the sheets, and she pillowed her head on his shoulder. 

“It’s my bed,” she said.

“I know.”

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, humming with contentment. It echoed in her chest, and somehow, like that, he stopped being too much or not enough. In that moment, he was just right. 

They went to sleep because there was nothing left to say.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, friends. We live in some strange times. Thanks for sticking with me. <3

The bed was empty when she woke. It took a moment for her to remember that was not what she expected. 

It was still dark. A quick glance at her clock showed it to be far too early for waking. She switched on the small reading lamp on her nightstand and sat up. A faint glow shone from the far side of the bed. She leaned over to find Trevelyan crouched on the floor, peering beneath the bed using his phone as a light. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, more sharply than strictly necessary. 

He looked up and smiled, holding out his hand. In his palm sat three of his shirt studs. “Three out of four’s not bad.”

She saw that he was fully dressed, everything but the shoes. “Are you leaving? It is barely five o’clock.”

“Yeah.” He pressed his lips together and perched on the edge of the bed. “I’ve got a meeting at the Circle I can’t miss, and I’ve got to go home and change. Black tie’s a little much.”

“Oh,” she said, trying not to sound so disappointed. What did she expect, anyway? A lazy morning in bed? Breakfast?

He studied her for a moment, and she realized the covers had fallen away, and she still wasn’t wearing any clothes. He looked down and shook the studs in his fist before dropping them into his pocket. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

She nodded. “Of course.” 

His eyes were dark, almost black in this light. “What am I to you? What do you want from me?”

She should have seen it coming, but she didn’t. Not at all. 

“I—” 

She stopped, not knowing what to say. These things were always so difficult. Was what they had shared not enough? Did she have to put it in words, too? Her stomach tied itself in a knot and a familiar ache bloomed in her chest. It must have shown on her face.

He shook his head when she didn’t answer. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to spring this on you. I don’t need a label or anything. I just—” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I just need to know what’s next. If this means nothing to you, or if it’s another mistake, tell me now. Please.”

Last night had not fully erased the painful parts of their earlier encounter, it seemed. Did he fear a repeat? She winced at the memory. But if she had ever doubted his sincerity, that was impossible now. He was laying himself open—all in, everything on the table. It was an honest question, and it begged an honest response. 

But what was her answer? What did she want? 

Her silence stretched on, and she could feel him start to close in on himself. He set his jaw, turning away and tapping his fist on the bed. 

“Right,” he sighed. “Yeah.” The bed shifted as he began to rise from his seat.

 _No._ She shot her hand out to catch his arm, and he paused, eyes wide with surprise and what might have been a spark of hope. 

“Wait,” she said, though it was clear he was no longer going anywhere. She threw off the covers and moved to sit beside him, legs folded beneath her. “Wait. I did not mean— You deserve an answer.”

She took a deep breath. He waited. She looked down at her fingers clutching the sheets because it was easier than looking at him. 

“I told you before. You were never the mistake. And I— I do not know what you are. But you are not nothing. Far from it. I’m sorry I do not have a better answer.”

She looked up and was met with Trevelyan’s clear-eyed intensity. His eyes flicked to her lips, and she wet them with her tongue, like an invitation. Slowly, he leaned in and brought his mouth to hers, gentle but sure. His hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her in and deepening the kiss. 

Even when their words failed, they could speak volumes like this. The knot went loose in her belly, twisting free in a tangle of messy, hot desire. It was dizzying, intoxicating, and _good._

They came up for air, and he smiled, touching their foreheads together. His eyes drifted over her, down and back. 

“Fuck it.” He struggled out of his jacket and jumped to his feet, throwing off the clothes he had recently put on with a single-minded fury. 

She laughed and lay back on the bed to wait for him. “I thought you had a meeting. Will you not be late?”

He was already crawling over her, catching her by the hips, running his hand up her side. He crushed his lips to her neck and growled in her ear. “I don’t fucking care.”

Neither did she. 

She was wet, and one smooth thrust saw him buried deep inside her. She gasped at the sudden fullness, and he half-swallowed the sound with yet another kiss. He tilted her hips and rocked into her as she wrapped her legs around his waist, reveling in the satisfying weight of his body on hers and the view of his broad shoulders over her. It left her hands free to roam wherever she pleased. 

There was a certainty in the way he moved, in the way he held her and the pace he set. It felt new. They said a mage was fire made flesh, but she had never felt it to be more true than now. He was heat and power, tenderness and light. Here with him, like this, she could almost believe it was not just a man she held in her arms, but a firestorm in a bottle. It made her want to melt into him, to match his strength with hers, to meet him in the clouds and fly away with him. 

When his rhythm faltered, she knew he was close. His movements turned rough, erratic. She bucked up from the mattress and gripped him with her knees, drawing him in and taking him deeper. Her hands scraped up his back, fingers scratching at the stubble on his jaw, moving up to frame his face. Their eyes met, and in that look she saw everything in his heart. Had it always been there? She pulled him down, pressing kisses to his throat and claiming his mouth for a prize. 

One more snap of his hips sent her over the edge, and she broke away to speak his name. She clenched down on him, and he followed soon after. His orgasm tore through him with a roar, hips stuttering as he buried his face in her shoulder. 

For one clear, hanging moment, the rush of their breath and the beat of her heart were the only sounds in the room. She was still holding him so tight. When he recovered, he pushed himself up on shaky arms. He kissed her on the lips and smiled.

“Not nothing, huh? I guess I can live with that.” 

_Ugh._ If she had known he would repeat it, she would not have said it like that. But she laughed anyway. 

He must have caught sight of the clock, because he straightened like a bolt and rolled off of her, landing his feet on the floor. 

“Shit.” He gathered pieces of his clothing and hurried into them. “I really am going to be late.”

She leaned on an elbow and watched, still basking in the afterglow. “So now you care?”

He grinned, slowing down to put on his jacket. “I regret nothing,” he said, tugging his cuffs to adjust the sleeves. He found his shoes and stepped into them. 

“Have dinner with me?” he asked as he stooped to tie the laces. 

“You mean tonight?”

“Why not? There’s this Orlesian place downtown… I think you’d like it.”

She snorted. “Are you courting me now?”

He laughed and returned to his feet, flexing his shoulders in his jacket. “Let’s just call it a date.”

She couldn’t say no. “Will I see you at City Hall later?”

He nodded and dashed across the room for one last kiss. “I’ll be back for the war table this afternoon.”

Then he was gone, and it was just her, but she still felt less alone than she had in a long time. 

Her alarm went off an hour later. She stepped out of bed and was startled by the bite of something small and hard under her heel. After a quick search, she retrieved the last of Trevelyan’s studs from the floor. She rolled it between her fingers, letting the polished onyx flash in the morning light. Then she set it carefully on her bedside table and got up to start her day. 

\---

It was hard to put his finger on exactly when he fell in love with the Seeker, but what he did know was that if she had turned him away and rejected him again that morning, it would have broken his heart. He had known it then when he woke up in her bed. He had known it last night standing on the curb outside her apartment. But he’d stayed anyway. He’d asked anyway. He couldn’t bear not to. 

Everything felt different now. Whatever was between them, it was no longer a floating, formless point in space. It had weight. It had a future. The hardest part was keeping his mind from racing on and chasing that arc all the way to the horizon. He told himself not to think about it. The only thing he wanted to think about was seeing her again, and the sooner he was done at the Circle, the sooner that could happen. 

The high lasted until his cab pulled up to the Circle’s north entrance. Tightened security was visible from the street. The barred gates and double guard yanked his head from the clouds and dragged him back to earth as he stepped out of the car. 

There was a line. Ten minutes later, Owain handed his ID to one of the guards, who studied it like an ancient text that might give up some secret meaning if only she tried hard enough. She looked him over, and he raised his brows, which made her frown as she tapped his information into the terminal in front of her. Satisfied with the result, she handed back the card and waved him through the gate. They hadn’t exchanged a word. 

After that, it was almost comforting to swipe himself through the turnstile in his own building. He nodded at the familiar sentry who sat at the front desk with one eye on the entrance and the other on his phone. As Owain boarded the elevator and watched the floors tick upward, he went over the plan in his head. His disciplinary hearing wasn’t for nearly another hour. It was still early, but Reed would be in his office. He almost always was—first one in, last one out. 

After everything that had happened at the gala and attacks from what were now two Redcliffe mages, it was impossible to ignore the Circle’s role in what was happening in March City. Even if he wasn’t completely certain yet what that role was, the facts he did have were too damning to keep to himself. The incident last night had also attracted media. It was only a matter of time until someone figured out he’d been there. He had to come clean. He just hoped Reed would overlook his continued work with the Inquisition, but he was not particularly optimistic. He could trust his boss to be fair, but generous was a stretch. 

As expected, the director was in his office poring over a file. Owain poked his head in and rapped his knuckles on the open door.

“Trevelyan.” Reed glanced at his watch. “You’re early. The committee doesn’t convene until nine.”

“I know. I was trying to catch you beforehand. You got a minute?”

Reed leaned back in his chair and gestured toward the empty seat across the desk. Owain shut the door and sat down as Reed pushed his papers aside and waited for him to begin. 

“Hear about what happened last night?” asked Owain. “At the museum?”

“I heard there was an attack on the DA. Some political event. She was injured but survived.”

“You know who the assailant was?”

“News reports didn’t say.”

“It was a Circle mage. Militia Branch.”

“How do you know?”

“I was there.”

Reed squinted and propped his elbows on the desk in front of him. His voice dropped, slow and measured with a distinct lack of surprise in his tone. “With the Inquisition? The one I ordered you to have no contact with?”

Owain took a deep breath and pushed on. “That mage wasn’t the only one. There was another about a week ago. At Adamant, the Warden bunker. Killed five people during an Inquisition raid.”

“A week ago? Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Their Circle affiliations weren’t clear. We thought the first was a Warden. They weren’t in the registry, could’ve come from anywhere. And the Circle hasn’t exactly been welcoming to the Inquisition. Not the first place we— _they_ —would turn.”

“How do you know who they are now? And why are you so sure they’re related?”

Owain reached into his jacket and pulled out a copy of his notes. He unfolded the sheet of paper and passed it across the desk. “I looked them up. Here, in our system. Their last assignment is listed as an operation called Redcliffe. File’s classified above my level. But both of them were doing the same kind of magic—demon possession, blood magic.”

“You know we see blood magic every day,” said Reed, skimming the notes as he smoothed the creased paper with his fingers. He waved absently at the files he had just put down. “We’re working three cases this week alone.”

“This is different. You can draw a line between two points.”

Reed looked up and cocked a brow, saying nothing. Waiting.

Owain sighed. _Time to come clean._

“The Inquisition has been tracking a substance known as red lyrium. The Wardens dug it up out of the Deep Roads and have been shipping it all over the city for the right price. It’s twice the strength of the regular stuff, and it’s dangerous. It’s what makes the Red Templars what they are. For mages, it pushes your mana past the limits until you’re drawing pure energy from the Fade. Mix that with blood and demons, and you've got serious power. Both of these mages were using it. It took three of us to bring down the one last night.”

Reed stared at him. “You’re saying this lyrium is in the Circle. And you think these attacks are coming from us? Some kind of conspiracy?”

“These are officers, Reed,” said Owain with a shrug. “Not the kind of people that just pick up and go rogue. Someone’s running this operation, and it’s way above my pay grade. Like I said, I don’t even have clearance for their full records.”

Sitting back in his seat, Reed took off his glasses and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “We don’t always agree, Trevelyan,” he said quietly. “But I’ll admit you’re not the type to make up stories.”

“So you believe me?” He’d expected more resistance. Much more.

“I’ll look into it.”

“That’s about everything I know,” said Owain, nodding at his notes. “If there’s anything else you need…” He stopped himself, remembering one other connection. “Well, there is something else you should know. It’s Fiona. I think red lyrium is what’s causing her condition. I found it in her office, and I think they’re dosing her at the hospital. The same red potions, all the same symptoms. Only difference is she’s in a coma.”

“If that’s true…” Reed knit his brows and trailed off, probably following that thought, as Owain had, to its logical and terrible conclusions. “Alright. We’ll look into that, too.” He checked his watch. “But for now, we need to head down for your hearing. You understand I will need to inform them of your ongoing contact with the Inquisition?”

The flutter of hope he’d felt about Reed’s cooperation fell out of the air and shriveled into dust. “But I just told you why,” Owain sputtered, struggling to keep anger out of his voice. 

“And I said I would look into it. That doesn’t change the fact that you defied a direct order. And that was before your two points.”

“But, sir—”

Reed held up a hand and shook his head. “I won’t lie to the committee.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just leave it out. Give me a chance. Let me work this case. I can—”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted him, and before he could react, it opened. It was Sutherland. “Director Reed.” He stopped short when he noticed Owain, who poured all of his current frustration into a red-hot glare. Sutherland cleared his throat and looked away. 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir. But a Circle-wide alert has just come through. It’s from the Grand Enchanter.”

“Fiona?” Owain said. The name was out of his mouth before he remembered it was wrong.

“Er, no... Alexius,” said Sutherland, with a look of confusion. “He’s called for an assembly. He’s asking everyone to gather on the lawn outside the Institute for an address.”

“When?” asked Reed. 

“Right now.”

Reed turned to Owain and sighed. “Looks like the hearing will have to wait.”

Owain wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or concerned. He followed the others out of the office. The elevator area was jammed, so they took the stairs. On the way down, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Sure enough, there was a notification from the Grand Enchanter’s office. What could warrant such a rare use of the emergency alert system? Judging from the chatter in the stairwell, they were all in the dark. 

They emerged in the lobby and went out into the morning sun, following the crowd streaming toward the Institute and whatever Alexius had planned. A small temporary stage had been set up in front of the building, not much more than a raised platform with a podium. People gathered around it, already several rows deep. 

Owain maneuvered his way to the front, where he noticed a familiar studded leather jacket a few yards from the dais. He squeezed into the empty space beside Pavus, earning a dirty look from the woman beside him, which he pointedly ignored. 

“Morning,” said Owain. “Any idea what this is about?”

Pavus looked preoccupied, his brows drawn close and a hard line to his mouth. “I don’t think anyone does,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes, which had a dark, bleary cast. He took a deep, heavy breath. “Felix passed last night.”

“Ugh.” Owain shifted his weight and squeezed his hands into fists in his jacket pockets. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time, but… still. Alexius called me early this morning. Impossible to sleep after that. He, on the other hand, sounded oddly calm.”

“Maybe he’s at peace about it?”

“Oh, I doubt that. Felix was his world, and he was certain this latest treatment would work. No. I fear for his state of mind, to be honest. And now this.” Pavus gestured at the crowd that had only grown larger since Owain arrived. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Looks like we’ll find out together,” said Owain, as the man in question stepped up onto the stage. He was accompanied by several men and women in blue Militia Branch uniforms. They formed a line across the platform, their boots falling heavily on the boards. 

A loaded hush spread through the crowd. Alexius moved to the front of the stage and squared his shoulders as he scanned the audience.

“Mages of the Circle, my brothers and sisters,” he began, in a worn Tevinter accent. “I called you here on this beautiful morning to witness the future. The next step in our evolution.”

Owain threw a sideways glance at Pavus. 

“Ten years ago, we fought alongside the people of March City to beat back the Blight. We bled and gave our lives for a city that had given us nothing, but locked us in towers and used us as tools for their ends. And what did we win for our service? 

“Our own government, in name, so long as we submit to their oversight. The ability to come and go, so long as we put our names on a list and play by their rules. The privilege of living among people who hate and fear the power we possess, who question our very existence in their midst. 

“These meager scraps of freedom are a shadow of what we deserve. We scraped and sacrificed to win even this. And now the few rights we have are being chipped away. Every time we are asked to prove ourselves, by every Templar eager to find guilt and every demagogue blaming us for their ills. The assassination of our leaders at the Conclave. We tried their way, and it has gotten us nowhere.

“But what if there was another way? A way we could become a power on our own? One they had no choice but to respect? My fellow mages, this is what I’ve come to show you today.”

At this, a tall, solidly-built man with a tanned complexion and dark brown hair stepped forward from the line of uniforms onstage. Separated from the others now, Owain recognized his face from the photos Althea had sent last night. It had to be Sarvadi, the third Redcliffe mage. It was unmistakable. The man touched a small device strapped to his wrist, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as it took effect. When he opened them, his eyes had taken on the same red glow Owain had seen on Blackburn the night before. His stomach lurched, even though he’d guessed what was coming. 

A wave of Fade energy rolled forward from the platform. The audience of mages gasped and shuddered but stood fixed in place, holding their collective breath to see what would happen next. 

They didn’t have long to wait. Sarvadi moved quickly, firing spells into the air above their heads. An impressive display of elemental magic, fire, ice, and lightning, flashed against the clear blue sky. All of it had the unsettling, super-charged quality Owain had come to expect with red lyrium. To cap the demo, Sarvadi cast a barrier over the first few rows of spectators and rained down a massive firestorm. It drew shouts of panic from the crowd, only for the spell to be fully absorbed by the shield.

Owain swore under his breath as the smoke cleared. The power of these Red Mages was undeniable, and Sarvadi had only shown elementals, nevermind blood magic and demons. His full repertoire was bound to be worse. Owain counted the mages—there were eight—all of them dressed in the same uniforms with the same lyrium apparatus on their arms. There were more than just the Redcliffe three, maybe even more than were currently on stage. That much power in the hands of one man? They could take on the Red Templars, the Inquisition, anyone Alexius deemed an enemy. 

Alexius was speaking again. “For the past several months, I have worked with the Circle’s finest officers in pursuit of a new kind of power, a way to harness the untapped potential of our innate connections to the Fade. And as you can see, we’ve found it.

“Now we have the strength to demand true freedom and make our voices heard. We will claim our rightful place among the powers of this city and use our gifts as the birthright they are and not the curse they would have you believe.

“You entrusted me to lead the Circle, and now I ask you to trust me on this new path. Raise your heads high and take pride in your magic! And if you wish to help us fight, to join the ranks of our new guardians, come forward. We can all be part of this future, for the Circle and for all mages!”

A smattering of cheers and applause rippled through the audience, but the reaction was mixed. For every smiling, cheering mage, there was another quiet with fear or worry. Reed stood a few rows back, frowning deeply as Alexius and the Red Mages filed off the stage. 

“I can’t believe this,” Pavus muttered. The line between his brows had turned into a chasm. “Experimenting on these poor souls, grasping for power. After he used to lecture me on the pursuit of knowledge and ideals!”

“Doesn’t sound like what we just heard,” said Owain. 

Pavus looked him in the eyes and set his jaw. “I need to talk to him,” he said. Then he turned and pushed his way toward the platform.

“Wait!” Owain called after him and reached for his arm, but his hand closed on empty air. He hurried after Pavus, slipping into the narrow path he was cutting through the dispersing crowd. 

“Gereon!” Pavus had reached the edge of the green, where Alexius was speaking to a cluster of eager volunteers. His band of uniformed mages stood by in a tight perimeter. 

Alexius looked up, and the benevolent smile he was wearing faltered for a moment. “Dorian.”

“You can’t do this,” said Pavus. “This is wrong. You think you can buy peace like this, but you can’t. It won’t last.”

Alexius blinked rapidly. “You’re not here to join us.”

“Of course not! This won’t end well. Mage rule is the root of our problems in Tevinter, and you want to recreate it here? Fear and violence will only beget more. This is exactly what we talked about never wanting to happen.”

“So you’re against us,” said Alexius, his face hardening. The mages who were waiting to speak with him looked between him and Pavus and backed away. 

“Should I condone murder?” Pavus had neared the circle of Red Mages, who closed ranks around the Grand Enchanter. “I was at the museum last night. We fought one of your men, and I nearly died in the process!”

“Then you know exactly what we’re capable of.” Alexius’s eyes narrowed and darted around the small crowd watching this exchange. They settled on Owain, who had caught up to Pavus and stood at his back. “You,” he hissed. “You’re the one from the Conclave. With the Inquisition.”

Owain didn’t deny it. It would have been pointless. In his peripheral vision, the Red Mages were taking position. He and Pavus were surrounded and outnumbered. Escape would be difficult at best. Quietly, he adjusted his stance and took his hands from his pockets, flexing them at his sides. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Dorian,” said Alexius, shaking his head. “You should be more careful about the company you keep. You could have been a part of this. I could have used a mind like yours at my side.” He looked up and spoke over their heads. “Director Reed. Please take these men into custody.”

Owain turned to find his boss standing just behind him. 

Reed stepped forward, his face impassive. “With all due respect, Grand Enchanter, I’ve seen no evidence of a crime.”

“They’re dangerous. Conspiring against the Circle.”

Reed stood his ground. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Oh, very well,” Alexius snapped. “Sarvadi, Miro, escort these gentlemen to my office. I’d like a word. In private.”

Unlike Reed, the Red Mages had no qualms about obeying orders. They seized Owain and Pavus by the elbows. Pavus put up a noisy protest, while Owain appealed to Reed with a look. There was sympathy in his eyes, but it was clear that at the moment, he was as powerless as they were. 

There was one thing Owain could do, given their conversation earlier that morning. Maybe it was obvious, but he wanted there to be no doubt. 

“We know about Redcliffe!” he called out, wrenching an arm free from his captors. “We know about Adamant and the DA! We know about Fiona! There’s blood on your hands, Alexius!”

Alexius was already walking away, but Owain’s words weren’t meant for him. Though Reed’s expression was calm, Owain could tell he’d understood. And it wasn’t just Reed. In the remains of the crowd, he spotted Vivienne. She met his gaze for a second, long enough to let him know that she, too, had seen and heard it all. 

It was a small consolation. There was no time or breath for anything else. Sarvadi caught his arm and twisted it behind his back, and one of the others put a fist in his gut. It took all the wind he had left. 

\---

Cassandra parked her motorcycle in her usual spot in the garage and walked out on the ground floor. The day was sunny, the world bright even through her sunglasses. She crossed the street to the coffee cart and waited as the vendor served a handful of others. 

_Not nothing, huh?_

Her memory of that morning played again and again in her mind. Last night was not one she would easily forget, but today’s clarity, this understanding between them, this promise—it was a new and different kind of thrill. She wanted to shout it to the world, and she wanted to keep it like a secret. Somehow, both were true at once. 

She went up to her office, setting her coffee on her desk while she hung her jacket behind the door. Trevelyan’s chair was pushed against the wall and taken up by the thick but neat stack of files he’d been working on yesterday afternoon. It felt like a long time ago. 

_Let’s just call it a date._

There were only a few hours until the daily meeting at the war table. It would pass quickly. He’d be back by then, and she had plenty of work to do in the meantime. Then, later...

Cullen knocked on her open door, and she jerked to attention. How long had he been standing there? She hadn’t even noticed. 

“Looks like you’re in a good mood.” He smiled crookedly as he stepped over the threshold. “Have a good night?”

“Wh—at?” she said, hating the way her voice cracked on the word. She cleared her throat and sat in her chair, pasting a scowl on her face. “It was fine.”

Cullen raised a brow but didn’t press. His eyes made a quick pass around the room. “Where’s Trevelyan?”

“Circle. He will be back this afternoon.”

“I’ll just leave this with you then.” Cullen dropped a heavy three-ringed binder on her desk and pushed it forward. “Finally got those files from Adamant. Lyrium manifests should be somewhere in that mess.”

She flipped open the cover. “Have you looked at it?”

“No time,” he said, holding back a yawn. He swiped his fingers over his eyes, which looked more shadowed than usual. “Too busy cleaning up yesterday’s mess.”

“I’ll take care of it. How is Josie?” 

“She’s fine. They kept her overnight for observation, but no lasting damage as far as anyone can tell. The healing at the scene helped. Leliana, on the other hand—she was in before me this morning.”

Cassandra sighed and shook her head. “An attempt on her life, and she’s back at work already.”

“I wouldn’t cross her today. She’s out for blood.” Cullen smirked again and nodded at her. “Not like you’d do any different, anyway.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed, though he was right. “What is the status on Blackburn? Do you think she will speak to us?”

“We have her under Templar guard at Starkhaven General. Special ward. My men reported she woke in the middle of the night but immediately went into some kind of distress. Looks like the effects of the Red wore off, and her system couldn’t handle the shock. Like withdrawal but ten times worse, hitting you all at once. They put her under again just to ride it out.”

The effects of red lyrium sounded horrific, but Cassandra had trouble finding much sympathy for the mage. Her shoulder was sore, and a nasty bruise had appeared over her left hip since last night. No, she did not feel particularly sorry at all. 

“So, nothing on that front,” she said. 

“Not yet. And I wouldn’t count on it. There’s no telling when she’ll be coherent, even if she agrees to talk. No shortage of work, anyway. We still need to trace exactly how she got on the guest list and past our security.”

“Trevelyan said she is a Circle battlemage. An officer, like Renning.”

“Wish we had more on their background. Should have asked him to look into that when he was at the Circle.”

If she knew Trevelyan at all, she would guess he did not need to be asked. “What are your plans today?”

“Still processing evidence from the scene.” Cullen stretched and rubbed the back of his neck as he rattled off his to-do list. “Witness statements, surveillance footage, forensics. We recovered traces of the red lyrium solution Blackburn was using. Dagna’s analyzing it now. We’ll have to see how it compares to what we found at Adamant and what the Red Templars had in Kirkwall.”

“Is it possible to prove it came from the same source?” she asked, surprised at this line of inquiry. The idea hadn’t occurred to her, but if the lyrium itself could be linked, this might be the break they were looking for.

“Possibly,” said Cullen. “It’s not clear yet what differences there might be between samples, or whether there’s even enough of a chemical signature to trace, either in the lyrium itself or the makeup of the potions. But we can’t rule it out.”

“That Warden I spoke with—Downes. He mentioned that lyrium shares characteristics with living organisms, at least in that it can be blighted. Perhaps that means there are variations that can be compared?”

“Maybe. I’ll believe it when I see it. In the meantime…” He yawned and pointed at the binder in front of her. 

She rolled her eyes. “I said I would look at it, and I will. I’ll let you know what I find.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Cass.” He smiled once more and took his leave.

She picked up her coffee and swiveled in her chair to face the window, looking down at the small park in front of City Hall. Paved walkways criss-crossed the rectangle of grass, meeting at a plaza with a fountain in the center. The park’s only occupants now were a handful of pedestrians on their way to work and an old man slowly walking his dog. 

The Wardens, Amladaris, the possessed mages—were they all connected, as she had surmised from the beginning? Was red lyrium the key? The view from her window gave her no answers. She turned back to the binder on her desk and sighed. Perhaps this was one way to find out. 

Whatever else she could say about the Wardens, she could not fault their record-keeping. They had documented details about every shipment of red lyrium, from the quantity to the destination and receiving party. The street addresses did not mean much to her, but after a morning of mapping and cross-referencing, she finally had a list of shipments that corresponded to real locations, including several known and suspected Templar safe houses, as well as the Circle. The name that took delivery there sounded like one Downes had mentioned in his interview. A quick search revealed Gereon Alexius to be a prominent researcher at the Circle. What would Trevelyan make of that? 

She gathered up her notes and went down the hall to find Cullen. She knocked on his door, and when he didn’t answer, she opened it a few inches and peeked inside. Stacks of files and a clutter of empty cups and pens littered his desk, but he was not there. 

As she turned the corner to return to her office, Cullen called her name. He was standing at the door to the war room, waving her down. She started to explain her findings, but he shook his head to stop her. She stepped into the room, and it became clear why. 

Leliana sat in her chair at the head of the table, her arm in a brace but otherwise looking like business as usual. Her face was drawn as deadly serious as Cassandra had ever seen her. On the opposite corner sat an impeccably dressed woman with her legs crossed at the knee and hands folded elegantly over them. Her expression mirrored Leliana’s. She gave a curt nod in greeting, and Cassandra remembered her name. It was Madame Vivienne de Fer. 

\---

Alexius’s office was on the top floor of the red brick tower that served as the Circle’s research institute. It was an old building, one of the oldest in the compound. Its purpose dated back to the very origins of the Circle, unlike the modern office buildings that were built after the Blight and the freedoms that had came with it. 

The Red Mages marched them into a dark, wood-paneled space that smelled like dust and old carpet. The shelves that lined the walls were packed with papers and heavy, well-aged tomes. A single large window looked down on the lawn where they had stood minutes ago. Alexius slid into the seat in front of it, while his soldiers crammed Owain and Pavus into the ones on the other side of the wide mahogany desk. 

Alexius relaxed into his chair and tented his fingers, looking more at ease here among his books than he had outside on the grass. “So, the Inquisition. We have an unfortunate way of crossing paths, do we not, Enchanter… Trevelyan, was it?”

Still bristling from his handling by Alexius’s men, Owain gripped the arms of his chair and clamped his jaw shut. 

“Tell me, what interest does the Inquisition have in the Circle?” asked Alexius, not at all bothered by the silence.

“What do _you_ have against the Inquisition?” Owain shot back. 

Alexius laughed. It rang cold and hollow. “Would it surprise you if I said nothing?”

It did, actually. “Then what were your battlemages doing at Adamant? And at the museum?”

“We were upholding an agreement, and you were in the way. Nothing more.”

“An agreement with whom?”

“It hardly matters anymore,” said Alexius, with a wave of his hand. “It was a mistake. And it’s done.” He changed the subject by putting on another false smile. “I hear the Inquisition is having some difficulty containing the rogue Templars. Are they not the ones behind the Conclave disaster? If your goal is to restore order, surely you will need to counter this threat?”

The defection of the Red Templars was no secret, nor was their role in setting up the explosion at the Conclave. But did Alexius have the gall to suggest some kind of cooperation? After what he had done? 

“What are you saying?” asked Owain.

“I am saying that perhaps the Inquisition is in need of mages. And I am saying I have them.”

Owain’s blood was simmering already. Even if it wasn’t, the possessiveness in those words would have rubbed him the wrong way. “Mages that you poison and offer up like mercenaries? Last I checked, the Circle militia isn’t your personal army.”

“They’re loyal to the Circle, and as Grand Enchanter, the Circle is mine.”

“A title you stole from Fiona. After you poisoned her, too.”

Alexius’s eyes went wide. “Fiona,” he sneered. “We’ve all been blinded by her heroism during the Blight. Peace made her complacent. Weak. We were being humiliated, our rights stripped away, and she did nothing to stop it. Extraordinary power was in our grasp, and she refused to even see it. Her way would lead us back into the dark ages, to be locked up in the Circle forever.”

“So you took her out.”

“I did what was necessary.”

Pavus had been quiet since they sat down, but he cut in now. “Why?” he asked, with eyes fixed on his mentor. “This isn’t like you, Gereon. Politics and power-mongering. What happened to your beliefs? What would Felix make of this?”

Alexius’s face fell at the mention of his son. The smooth facade crumbled, revealing the weary old man underneath. “Felix is dead.”

“And this is how you honor him?”

“It was the only way.”

“The only way for what?”

“To keep him alive!” Alexius stood abruptly, letting his chair roll back and hit the wall behind him. He leaned his fists on the desk and shook his head. “He was dying, Dorian. They promised me that treatment would work. They promised me they would save my son, if only I—” He stopped himself and took a deep breath. “No. It doesn’t matter now.”

“You sold out your men to save your son?” said Owain. “Ran your experiments, pumped them full of lyrium, and sent them to die for someone else?” 

“It’s over,” said Alexius through gritted teeth. “The Wardens betrayed me. They killed Felix. Amladaris thinks he can play me, but he’s wrong. If he wants the Circle, he’ll have to come and take it. The Circle serves mages, and it’s time we answered to ourselves alone.”

Owain seethed. Every old resentment from his own service days came back to him now like a wound that never healed. Being used as a weapon, less a person than a means to an end, his value in his ability to follow orders and cause damage in the field. Images of Fiona in her hospital bed flashed in his mind, followed by the manic look in Blackburn’s eyes as the lyrium filled her veins and the frozen fury on Renning’s pale, dead face. Did these Red Mages understand the risks they had taken? Had Alexius told them about that? Or had he dazzled them with promises of power and glossed it with this talk of freedom? He was no revolutionary, just another person in power taking advantage for his own agenda. They were all the same. 

“You’re no better than the rest,” he spat. “Did your men know they were on a suicide mission? Did Renning know before he died? Blackburn?”

“They knew what they signed up for.”

“Did they?” He turned back to look at the uniformed mages standing guard by the door. “Do they know what happens to you on red lyrium? Do they know about the madness that’s coming for them? What it looks like to lose their minds to it? Did you tell them about that, or did that get lost in all this talk of freedom and power?”

“Freedom has a cost. A cost they were willing to pay.”

“After clearing the balance on your personal debts?”

Alexius’s eyes flashed, his face gone red with rage. Owain was halfway out of his seat without realizing. The Red Mages had rushed from the doors and stood around the desk with spells ready. Pavus sat tense in his chair. 

“Think very carefully about what you do next, Enchanter Trevelyan...”

The phone on the corner of the desk rang in the charged silence. On the third ring, Alexius jabbed at the speaker. “Alexius. What is it?”

His assistant, probably. “It’s Amladaris, sir. Should I tell him you’re busy?”

“No need,” he replied, still glaring at Owain. “We’re done here.” He barked orders to his men. “Get them out of my sight. Hold them, and make sure they don’t contact the Inquisition. The last thing we need today is any more of their intervention.”

The mages jerked them to their feet and pulled them away as Alexius sank into his chair and took the call. Owain dragged his feet and strained to hear what was said, but it was cut off by a hard shove in the back and the slam shut of the heavy wooden door.


End file.
